What day is it again?

It's Monday...probably.

I had my first shower in three days this morning. I've been so busy with additional work hours that while my second move went like a military operation, I still haven't had time to unpack and move in properly, let alone get to the store to buy a shower curtain...until yesterday that is. "Moving in properly," also includes things like finishing unpacking to the extent that I can walk from one side of the room to the other without having to walk on the bed. It would include NOT running out of medication, which happened the day before yesterday so I'm typing, from work, in withdrawal or "discontinuation syndrome" as my shrink calls it. It would include being able to find something, or anything in my home. It would include having fresh groceries in the fridge. It would include ordering internet access in advance and after thorough research rather than just ordering Rogers for two days from now.

If I sound a little peeved it's because I've been struggling to scrunch everything in around work. Since starting, my hours have been increased and whilst I seem to be doing quite well, when the thought of asking for a day off crosses my mind I suddenly feel like Oliver Twist, asking for more. I even organised both moves to happen on my day off. Yesterday I had to beg for half an hour during the time the store was open so I could get to the hardware shop across the road. I struggled back with a mailbox, grounding cable for the mixer, sponge and squeegee for the windows, bathmat, shower curtain, doormat, light bulbs, dusters, door wedges, surge protectors, plus more I can't even remember. This will all pass I'm sure, once I can get everything organised. I just have to hang on for today and tomorrow and then I get two days off on the trot so hopefully I can get caught up. It's really pissing me off though. My place is a mess, and not being able to lay my hands on things whenever I need them is driving me nuts.

I'm too tired to relish the place at the moment, although it is still nice to come home and not have to worry about working around someone else and their own schedule.

More updates will follow when I finally get web access at home.

"Even in the future, the sweet is never as sweet without the sour. And I know sour."

This'll be my last blog from this address. Everything's packed except some clothes in my room. All I'll need to do in the morning is remember my bike, and dismantle my bed so it'll fit through the doorway.

It's also the cut-off point for her and the year-long farce. My old e-mail address is gone, the screen is cracked on my old phone so I can't read text messages anyway and the Fido/Rogers account just about done. After tomorrow she won't have any of my current contact details and I will no longer have to wonder why she hasn't been in touch.

It's a shame really...a waste. But when it gets me down I just keep telling myself (a) that she probably never did intend to meet me, and (b) even if she did, there's nothing I can do about it anyway. The only info I have for her is an e-mail address so she could be anywhere on the planet. I just wonder which one. I must admit though, the last few days have been extraordinarily painful and I couldn't stop myself hoping that the deadline might stimulate some action on her part. Indeed, I wondered if she'd suddenly appear at the front door while I was up to my eyes in cardboard boxes and parcel tape.

But no, of course she didn't. I suspect her ex-husband would've padlocked her in the basement if she'd even tried.

As Penelope Cruz' character, Sofia, says in Vanilla Sky: maybe Sarah and I, "...will meet in another life, when we are both cats."

Stardate 19.11.09 Supplemental

Waaaaaaaaaay too busy to blog properly right now.

Basement, kitchen, dining room, lounge, plus all DJ equipment is all packed and ready to move. Movers are confirmed. Just the bedroom to do tonight and by this time tomorrow...CHEZ MOI!

Oh, and I just got my second thank-you pressie from a customer in as many months for being so helpful. Are you still reading, Blane? Huh? Are ya?

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeet

I've always been open on my blog, and I've always told the truth. Even in the midst of an anxiety attack or suicidal depression, I've told the truth. So now I have to bend my own rule and refer to her again.

It's been twelve days, yet peeling off another layer of anxiety as I have, has been like ripping off a scab. You believe everything has healed underneath, so it surprises you when you bleed. Underneath the anxiety is heartbreak.

It's a different kind of pain, which is a change at least. I just wish I could stop myself hoping we'll still end up getting together somehow, even though I know that's impossible. I have to keep reminding myself that she doesn't exist - as described at least - anywhere but in my own mind.

I've been heartbroken before though, so I know it's only a matter of time before I feel OK again. It sure as shit hasn't happened yet though.

Move phase one complete

Rarrrrr! I am man, the indomitable.

Feeling good today LOL. The movers were on time, the ex-wife was in good form, and the whole business was done-and-dusted by about one o'clock in the afternoon. We had to remove one door, a ten-feet long set of iron railings, and the legs from the sofa, but eventually we got it in. I really didn't think the rusty nuts on the bolts that secured the railings to the poured concrete were gonna come out. But the guys were geniuses. A quick rummage through his toolbox and Jason had dismantled the whole thing.

He'd be a fantastic saboteur.

Plus, I've unpacked all the boxes, and stowed the the packing materials in a transparent bin sack that stands nearly as tall as me in my socks. I had a fleeting thought that I might make some beanbags and use the polystyrene chips as filling. Then I imagined myself sat in front of a sewing machine, humming away. After a brief shudder I scrapped the whole idea.

Those polystyrene chips are devious little fuckers though. I assume it's static electricity that makes them as adhesive as that pink goo old people use to cement their dentures in with. I was only there for a couple of hours today and I already know that I'm going to be finding those little SOBs months from now. They stick to anything.

A funny thing happened while I was there. I'd reassembled the couch, and had my feet up on the Ottoman as I tried to figure out whether the TV programme I was watching was coming from cable or via an antenna on the roof. I heard a door open, and a guy popped into view over my left shoulder, through the lounge and the kitchen. He'd come down the indoor staircase to do his washing.

And there was me thinking, "Wow, it's so cool that the last tenant left behind all this washing powder and tumble-dryer sheets!"

So apparently the washing machine and tumble-dryer are shared with upstairs, which was news to me. Although it doesn't bother me that they are shared. The thought that did occur to me as the guy appeared between my bathroom door and the back door was, "Jesus christ, I could've been sprawled naked on the leather sofa with my favourite porno blaring from the TV, masturbating wildly."

At least the neighbour would always remember our first meeting.

Light at the end of the tunnel?

Things seem to be looking up.

I was nearly moved to tears the day before yesterday when a customer gave me a bottle of red wine as a thank-you. To be honest I was caught a little unawares, and the boss hadn't said anything about the store policy on accepting gifts, so I took it and said thank-you LOL. It's pretty yummy t00 - a nice smoky, biscuit-y Malbec.

I have felt genuinely relieved since the end of my dalliance with Wonderland, and there has been no response from any of the protagonists involved, neither directly nor via the blog. Mind you, if I were them I'd be pretty embarrassed too. Moreover, my feelings of sorrow, frustration, anger and anxiety are slowly but surely being replaced with a 100% genuine glee about moving into my new home. I've noticed three or four of them in the last week or so and that's more than I've experienced in the preceding six months so I'm hoping it's surefire evidence of mental change for the better.

There's still lots to do on that front though. Bank accounts to close, LPs to get to the record shop, boxes and packing materials to collect etc. That said, the movers are booked for the first of the two moves i.e. the extraction of my worldly possessions from my ex-wife's condo. Plus the fact that she's now buying the sofabed from me means that I no longer need to worry about how I'm going to get it out of the mezzanine. It also gives me more options at the new place in terms of layout because I'll have only one sofa to fit in rather than two. I have butterflies right now because I'm picking up the keys on my way to group therapy in an hour or two. I might pop in and see the new place on the way home to remind myself what it looks like and see where the landlord has got to with the work orders.

I'm actually looking forward to giving up smoking too, which is very peculiar. Otherwise all else is the same. I won't be starting any big 'life' projects until after I'm unpacked and moved in, so there probably won't be much to write about for a while.

Sarah in Wonderland

A brief note to say I finally lost my rag with the invisible woman and gave up on her. This is the last time I will speak of her on my blog.

The whole experience has been pretty bizarre from start to end. I won't dwell on the 'he said, she said' of the argument we had the other day, suffice to say that we seem to have radically different ideas about what's real and what's make-believe.

The strangest thing of all is that she seems surprised...even outraged that I don't trust her or believe a single word she says anymore. To me, that's a perfectly logical human response to her inciting anxiety attacks in me, dissolving my self confidence to the extent that I started smoking cigarettes again, being repeatedly stood up, blatantly lied to, and being delivered a string of broken promises and a catalogue of excuses over a period of A WHOLE YEAR for not being able to meet!!! Not anywhere, anytime, any day of the week, for any duration. Not dinner, not the 'safe lunch', not a 30-minute chat over coffee, nothing. Whether alone or chapparoned. Whether in Sudbury, Ottawa, or Toronto.

I'm not even angry and heartbroken anymore - only bemused in that, "W.T.F.?", open-mouthed, can't help but laugh out loud, "...well how did you think I'd react to that?" way.

The whole experience is inexplicable to me.

To Blane, Rudi, Petra, Sarah's ma & pa:
If you do all really exist (because I can't even take that for granted), and any of you are reading this and have anything to say that you couldn't say before (despite me sending you my phone number, e-mail address, and postal address via Sarah more than seven months ago), then feel free to comment.

To everyone else:
Don't get your hopes up.

Message ends.

NEXUS: an inconvenient truth

The morning after a night of high anxiety is a bit like a hangover.

You're cogniscant that you probably behaved out of character, but because the anxiety disorder comes with its own 'interpretation' of the sufferer's personality it's almost as if you were a different person. Thus you tend to go through a process of retreading your steps to see if there's anything you need to apologise for or fix. Did I snog anyone I shouldn't have? Did I break anything? Did I take a dump in anyone's tuba? That sort of thing.

Embarrassment is often the dominant emotion on such mornings. An hour ago I felt embarrassed for what I said on here about Sarah, for that - allegedly - is the invisible woman's name. However, I've come to realise that my embarrassment is more to do with allowing myself to get into this whole situation in the first place. After all, if anyone behaves in such a way as to incite anxiety in someone who has an anxiety disorder then, well, this is what you get. As a physicist would say, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Alternatively, if you're feeling all comfy and philosophical this morning because of the extra hour in bed, then perhaps the words of the Merovingian from The Matrix Revolutions will seem more apt:

"I have told you before, there's no escaping the nature of the universe. It is that nature that has again brought you to me. Where some see coincidence, I see consequence. Where others see chance, I see cost."

Anyway, I specifically used the word "Nexus" when I alluded to this blog entry a few days ago. A great many significant things are happening inside and around me, all culminating in a nexus of change. The stalker is gone, and good fucking riddance. I finally got the feedback on my job performance - something I specifically hunted down because I knew I would feel anxiety without it. In the review, I was described as:

• Having a bright and shiny demeanour and attitude;
• High-energy;
• Having a fun and personable approach;
• An 'ideas' man;
• Attentive to detail.

This is the real me, emerging from beneath the cloak of depression and anxiety. I do have things to work on, as anyone would, but this feedback is a far cry from the cognitive distortions that would have me believe I'm utterly inept - a walking, talking disaster.

I've also found a new place to live, signed the lease, and yesterday brainstormed my 'moving' plan. As a result I have a list of 27 to-do items, but that's far less intimidating than just trying to remember everything I need to do. I'm really looking forward to it too - not the moves themselves but that moment when the movers finally leave. And, whilst I'll probably be surrounded by an ocean of cardboard boxes and bags stuffed to capacity, it will still be my mess in my home. The next thing to do will be to crank up the house music, and walk around naked indoors whilst smoking a joint. Why? BECAUSE I CAN!!!

Whilst everything else was going on at the same time, my housemate/landlord got fired. I was pleased to see that he raised his arms in victory as he told me, rather than moping. I think it's been a long time coming, and I genuinely believe it's the best thing for him. He hasn't liked his job since I moved in a year ago, and they really seemed to pile the pressure on. I've been there before - in that work mode where you leave the office so late that you're too tired to shop or cook. You grab a burger on the way home and eat it in your suit, and then fall into bed. In the morning, you put the same suit back on and go back to work. Then repeat this non-stop for month after month. This, I suspect, is how the term "burnout" came to be part of the vernacular. I was not only impressed but genuinely pleased for him when he left the house for a run the following morning. He even did the dishes. Not mine, unfortunately. He hand-picked only those items of crockery and cutlery that he'd used but, well, one step at a time. For him that's a huge leap forward. He's practically Martha Stewart.

Then there was the epiphany about how to deal with the situation with Sarah. I'm using her name now because I'm pretty confident there's more than one 'Sarah' in Toronto with a daughter. Anonymity is assured. In short, the realisation that I've been attempting to act and think as if I were already part of Sarah and her daughter's life has enabled me to negate hundreds of anxieties I experience daily. The crux of this was that I felt she expected me to know many things that I don't, about her and her daughter, and their lives. But she has no such expectations.

That said, we do both still have rudimentary expectations. I cannot speak for her, but I expect her to be honest with me. I expect her to be open. I expect her to communicate when appropriate and respond to my communications when appropriate. It works both ways. I even had the expectation that, because she knows what an emotional minefield holidays are for me, that she might manage to communicate proactively at those times. Unfortunately it would appear that this expectation is an unrealistic one.

Most of all though, I expect her to behave in the wise, mature, adult fashion that's really the lowest common denominator for a 35 year-old woman. Alas that expectation appears unrealistic also. It is this, more than anything else, that causes me anxiety on a daily basis: being kept totally in the dark. I have no idea what's going on with her. I don't know where she is. I don't know her intentions. I don't know what proportion of the things she has told me are true, and what proportion is either bullshit or indicative of someone fighting their own personal issues. She selectively answers 'smalltalk' questions but whenever I ask about something that's really important to me (and should be to her too), I get only crypticism in return. In short, I no longer have any idea where she's coming from, or even whether she plans to honour a single one of the many promises she's already made to me.

Right now, even cigarettes are better for me than Sarah. They're freely available, not unreasonably priced, and most important of all they provide a reliable high every time I light one up. Yet I will be using my imminent change of home environment in order to help me give up smoking. Apparently once a smoker associates a particular place with smoking, then the body starts to respond to that environment automatically - lowering the blood pressure in order to pave the way for the stimulating biological effect of the cigarette on the bloodstream. Unfortunately that auto-anticipation is the same biological change that incurs craving. So, I won't ever be smoking cigarettes at the new place as soon as I make it there.

But now I'm wondering whether I should also use this life change as an opportunity to go cold turkey with my Sarah 'addiction'.

At the moment she knows where I live, where I work, my phone number, and my e-mail address. However, each and every one is a source of anxiety for me. I get anxious when the phone doesn't ring. I gawk at the laptop screen waiting for e-mails from her that rarely come these days, especially compared to the first few months of the *cough cough* relationship. And I am SO sick and tired of doing a double-take whenever a fucking red F-150 drives past the house, and then feeling the inevitable disappointment when it isn't her. So, as I continue in my quest to terminate those aspects of my life that feed my anxiety disorder, I could simply not divulge my new address to her.

My phone number and e-mail address will also both be changing so, similarly, I have the option not to divulge those to her either. The trouble is that I'm torn between cutting her off completely and leaving some olive branch so that she could reach me if she wanted to.

But does she really want to? The last time I asked her whether she was waiting to meet me or waiting until I gave up and went away, she wouldn't even answer the question. It makes my heart ache to say it, but I suppose if nothing changes for the better before I move house then I'll probably have no choice but to put and end to it all. If one thing's for certain, I will not stand for this relentless, merciless, anxiety-causing farce of a relationship in my own home. And why the fuck should I? Most people's eyes bulge when I reluctantly tell them that I've been hanging on for a year, patiently if excruciatingly hoping for some sign of progress. I seem to be the exception to the norm, which is circa one month.

But there has been no progress. Indeed, Sarah has neither said nor done ANYTHING in months that gives me any reason to expect that there ever will be.

That, alas, is the inconvenient truth.