Take THAT to the bank

Well, that was an experience.

I couldn't bear the thought of the CIBC financial advisor assuming I'm a reckless waster of money so I prepared an executive summary of everything that's happened to me, or more accurately has been done to me, since 2005 that has led inexorably to my current financial position.

I think she must have believed me because I've never met her before, but she cried when I got as far as the summer of 2008 when my ex-wife proverbially threw me out on the street in the middle of a financial and mental crisis.

Now I have to wait to see whether I can replace credit card debt with a line of credit/loan. Apparently my credit rating is still exceptional, which I am astonished to hear, but I now need to scramble to do two years' of tax returns because the bank needs those forms. I've been overtaxed halfway up my sphincter in every job I've taken since arriving in Canada, to the extent that when I eventually do my annual tax returns I usually receive back between $1,000 and $4,000.

Let's hope it happens again.

After the meeting at the bank and having to again relive the five-year horror story of betrayal and persecution (also known as 'my life') I felt relieved but drained, sorrowful, and tearful. I purposefully walked Eastwards along Queen Street to Parliament Street. It's one of the roughest areas of Toronto. For every spoilt rich brat and wanky jeweller's on Bloor Street West, there is an equivalent homeless person and Dollarama store on Queen Street East. On Bloor West the people are usually tanned, overdressed, and dripping in gold and diamonds. On Queen East they are usually barely clad, smoking, drunk, and rocking.

The purpose of this walk was to remind myself that whilst I feel like I am at rock-bottom in life, in love, and in mental health, I do actually still have further to fall. Even if I never committed suicide, I could still be homeless. Things could be worse. If a day came when I couldn't afford to buy my medication then I would be hospitalised within 72 hours. I wonder what my ex-wife would think if one day she found me panhandling around Queen Street & Jarvis Street where our (now her) apartment is.

I shouldn't speculate though, it'll make my mood worse.

Time, again, to look to the kittens for affection methinks.