I'd hoped the six or so beers would be enough for me to drink myself to sleep but I suppose I should've started drinking later than 1.30pm. Besides, one of the teenagers opposite is throwing a party and I'm out of weed, out of booze, and can't find my earplugs so there definitely won't be any sleep for me until the party has run its course. I may as well blog.
Anyway, for reasons I can't fathom, the shrinks always ask you if you've thought about how you'd commit suicide, not whether you'd commit suicide. I never have figured out why. The last time I did was shortly after I'd been set up, stitched up, and fired from Interbrand Toronto, circa April '08. I went for a walk to 'clear my head' that night, happened across some railroad tracks, and started to consider the practicalities of it. It struck me, no pun intended, that just standing on the tracks would be a waste of time because the train driver would see me and just stop the train. I'd have to jump out from the bushes at the last minute and hope he or she couldn't get to the brake in time.
It would have been far more convenient to just take a flying leap from our balcony but the trouble was that it was only on the eighth floor. The only thing that can go wrong with taking one's own life is if it doesn't actually work, which can potentially be worse than death itself. Thus I shied away from the sans-parachute quasi-base jump because there was a strong possibility I'd be maimed, crippled physically and/or mentally, but not killed, despite the inviting expanse of grey concrete below. We didn't have a rooftop patio in our building though I knew from talking to the concierge that it was possible to get out onto the roof somehow. However, when I checked it out, a pretty sturdy padlock fastened the trap door, and I'd have needed a step-ladder to get up there anyway.
I'm a bit of a wuss when it comes to blood and guts so anything involving cutting, stabbing, or impaling is out. Plus, it takes just too damn long to die that way, and the last thing I'd want is to be thinking about the fact that I'm dying as I'm actually doing it. They say that of the proportion of GAD/clinical depression sufferers in North America, more women than men are affected. However, when it comes to the proportion of those who seek an easy way out, more men than women actually die. It seems, statistically at least, that women aren't very good at suicide.
If you're now considering accusing me of sexism then kindly e-mail your points of view to totallymissedthepoint@headupyourownarse.com
A gun would be nice. Quick, clean, portable...but impractical. I don't own a gun, wouldn't know where to steal one much less buy one, and know of only one in existence, which belongs to the cop in my group therapy posse. Little chance of borrowing it for a weekend.
I must admit I didn't brainstorm methods or anything. There was no research. In the end I defaulted to hanging, although - again - the impracticality is that there's nothing in the house to actually hang myself from. The only girders strong enough to support my weight are in the basement, where the ceiling is so low that I have to stoop in order to get from one side to the other without knocking myself unconscious. The only place with any chance of success would be the garage. I don't have any rope but there's plenty of cable in there, either from an appliance or just an extension cable. There's things to stand on and leap from too. Even lighting, if the mood should take me in the middle of the night.
As I thought it through though, I realised that the only person likely to find my body would be my housemate/landlord, whose penchant for procrastination would ensure that nobody would realise what had happened until the winter, when the time came for him to actually put his car in the garage. I don't understand why that seems like such a problem for me when I'd be pretty fucking far beyond the point of caring anyway, but it is.
Then the Eureka moment. If anyone should have to find my body then why not my ex-wife? After all, it was she who brought me to Canada under the pretence of living happily ever after. It was she who not only kicked me while I was down and divorced me when I was already at my wit's end, but also actively contributed to my downfall through her ignorance of mental illness, its symptoms, and its triggers, and by telling me that it was my fault that my career had failed. She even went as far as to suggest that me being honest with her about my suicidal thoughts was an attempt of mine to make her feel guilty. Someone should have filmed the scene so it could be uploaded into wikipedia under "selfish".
The good news is that I still have the keys to her apartment, and there's plenty of places to attach a rope.
So why all the consideration of checking out? Well, it gives me three, as opposed to two choices.
Choice one is to stick around here in Toronto. However, whilst I do have a freelance contract in the bag, it's with a not-for-profit so not very lucrative, and likely short-lived (again, no pun intended). I have no other income, and apparently despite being seriously ill, broke, and unemployed, I am not eligible for benefits, or "EI" as it's called here. I've been applying for jobs since November and got nowhere. In fact, I barely have two rejection letters to rub together because apparently nobody in Canada bothers with those. Because I've been either too sick to work, or comprehensively rejected for everything from my quasi-dream job (public sector communications for the Ministry of the Environment) to being a bike mechanic at MEC, I can't even say that any future income is in sight. It isn't. And, now I have the mysterious hole in my resume to explain to any future employer. When I think about some of the recruitment processes I've been though - interviews, IQ tests, presentations, writing exams, bla bla bla - I just can't see me getting through it. I don't think I can hold it together for long enough to fool any interviewer. Not even by phone. Besides, who am I kidding? What likelihood is there that I'd even get as far as an interview?
I no longer have any family in Toronto. I have few friends. I have no job or career here, and everything I own would fit in a cube van. In short, there is nothing to keep me here, and if I stay then all I have to look forward to is more therapy, followed by being forced to move because I can no longer afford the rent, followed by bankruptcy or some other kind of financial ruin with no end in sight.
That's choice #1.
Choice #2 is to literally walk away. Scrape together sufficient cash to get a taxi to the airport, beg my parents to pay for the flight, and return to the UK. The trouble I have with that though is the shame. The admitting of defeat. The inescapable conclusion that it wasn't just my marriage that I allowed to die, but my entire Canadian way of life. My one thought about dealing with paperwork, tying up loose ends, organising transatlantic logistics etc is that I just can't face the thought of it. Not again. Not now. Least of all when I'm one month from 38. It just sounds so pathetic that I can barely say it out loud without my stomach churning. "He couldn't handle it", "...he couldn't take it"..."what a pussy, what a mummy's boy"..."what kind of a 38 year-old runs home to his parents?". Besides, it's not as if there's a wife, family, job, career, home, white picket fence waiting for me there. I would be in the same position as I was when I arrived in Canada in 2005, worse in fact because I'd have zero cash, zero savings, no job to walk into, and no fiance. And I'd be four years older. I'd have to go through all the healthcare bureacracy bullshit immediately too...or I could just lock myself up in a room somewhere, go cold turkey, and see what happens to a human being when it goes from 225mg daily of Effexor XR to zero in one day.
Anyway, that's choice #2.
The third way, as Tony Blair used to say, is suicide. It doesn't cost any money, doesn't take any time, doesn't require anyone's permission, and - thank god - isn't something like EI or a job that I have to fill out another fucking application form for. And it's easy, so much easier than #1 or #2.
I suppose if I'm honest then there are more than three. There's the glittering international superstar DJ career...that I can't afford because it takes so long to get anywhere in DJing that I'd be bankrupt before I got to even the same postcode as making it cover the rent. There's the quick-fix moneyspinning ads I keep seeing on Google, but I just can't believe they're true. There's the PR training company idea I had, but I can't imagine being able to get that off the ground either. I haven't thought it through but after everything else, what reason do I have to believe it'd actually work? Then there's the planet-changing, global 'ecomart' business idea I had, but have neither the funding nor the expertise to bring from pipe dream to fruition.
The catchphrase/inside joke amongst those suffering depression is that they'd commit suicide, if they could only find the motivation to do it. However, in my case motivation seems irrelevant. It's about choice, or the lack of it. Frankly, the only thing stopping me taking a moonlight stroll to the garage right now is the fact that my folks would be really upset if I did. I'm glad they're not dead. If they were, then I might be too by now.
02 May 2009
It doesn't look good...
...for our hero.
Just caught up with the 250+ emails I've ignored in my most recent mood 'trough'. Nothing. No jobs to apply for.
Adecco/Alfred Marks tells me they have no jobs at all, let alone jobs relevant to me.
Plus, I can barely afford the interest payment on my credit card this month. So, in addition to the circa $20,000 of debt on my credit card I am, for the first time, going into my chequeing account overdraft in order to cover it. I have zero money coming in at the moment.
I am at a crossroads. My options are to run back to the UK, my tail between my legs, and beg of the charity of my parents. That would save me $850/month in rent. However, I have no idea how to deal with my belongings in Canada other than just going to the airport and leaving it all behind. Additionally, nothing would make me feel more like utter failure than that. A soon-to-be 38 year-old Mummy's boy. A guy who couldn't cope. A weakling. A boy, not a man.
Alternatively, I can take a job flipping burgers or washing dishes - assuming they'll have me - earn little over minimum wage, resent the job for every single minute that I do it, and run the risk of being pushed closer in terms of lacking self esteem to the final level of mental state for someone in my position i.e. contemplation of suicide. Mind you, the current trend is one of rejection so I may turn out to be over or under qualified for such roles.
I probably won't decide right now, having already consumed a litre or so of beer on an empty stomach. It's not the right time to make such a decision.
In the meantime, if nothing else, dear reader, then take the opportunity to learn about mental illness from this. Realise how powerful the control of the mind over the body is. Accept how prevalent mental illness is not only in Canada but on the planet. If you're mentally healthy then take a moment to count your blessings. Then perhaps consider doing something voluntary to help those like me who cannot help themselves. Is there a relative? A friend? Someone you know who you've shunned because they have "problems upstairs"? Did you reject someone's job application because they were brave and strong enough to admit they had mental difficulties in the past? Is it too late to reconsider?
When I see the bearded, sunburned, yellow-fingered homeless guys on the street I often think, "There but for the grace of god go I". The same can be said of any person stricken with mental illness. And the same can be said of you, dear reader. Mental illness is an illness that can strike anyone at anytime. It could be you next.
Just caught up with the 250+ emails I've ignored in my most recent mood 'trough'. Nothing. No jobs to apply for.
Adecco/Alfred Marks tells me they have no jobs at all, let alone jobs relevant to me.
Plus, I can barely afford the interest payment on my credit card this month. So, in addition to the circa $20,000 of debt on my credit card I am, for the first time, going into my chequeing account overdraft in order to cover it. I have zero money coming in at the moment.
I am at a crossroads. My options are to run back to the UK, my tail between my legs, and beg of the charity of my parents. That would save me $850/month in rent. However, I have no idea how to deal with my belongings in Canada other than just going to the airport and leaving it all behind. Additionally, nothing would make me feel more like utter failure than that. A soon-to-be 38 year-old Mummy's boy. A guy who couldn't cope. A weakling. A boy, not a man.
Alternatively, I can take a job flipping burgers or washing dishes - assuming they'll have me - earn little over minimum wage, resent the job for every single minute that I do it, and run the risk of being pushed closer in terms of lacking self esteem to the final level of mental state for someone in my position i.e. contemplation of suicide. Mind you, the current trend is one of rejection so I may turn out to be over or under qualified for such roles.
I probably won't decide right now, having already consumed a litre or so of beer on an empty stomach. It's not the right time to make such a decision.
In the meantime, if nothing else, dear reader, then take the opportunity to learn about mental illness from this. Realise how powerful the control of the mind over the body is. Accept how prevalent mental illness is not only in Canada but on the planet. If you're mentally healthy then take a moment to count your blessings. Then perhaps consider doing something voluntary to help those like me who cannot help themselves. Is there a relative? A friend? Someone you know who you've shunned because they have "problems upstairs"? Did you reject someone's job application because they were brave and strong enough to admit they had mental difficulties in the past? Is it too late to reconsider?
When I see the bearded, sunburned, yellow-fingered homeless guys on the street I often think, "There but for the grace of god go I". The same can be said of any person stricken with mental illness. And the same can be said of you, dear reader. Mental illness is an illness that can strike anyone at anytime. It could be you next.
An easy target
Sheesh. It's 8.23am on Saturday. I've been asleep since Thursday night, after staggering my way from group therapy, reeling from the lambasting I took for being late. Oh, and for the unforgivable crime of buying a coffee and a doughnut on the way.
Apparently drinking coffee and eating doughnuts is a crime in the country whose national emblem is practically a Boston fucking Cream.
What my dear acquaintances in group therapy fail to understand is that they're lucky I make it to group therapy at all. Indeed, being a few minutes late is a small price to pay when it would be so much easier for me to not attend. Some weeks it isn't even a choice. I don't choose not to attend, I just can't face the thought of leaving the house. It doesn't matter that it's group. It could be a meeting, a social event, a walk to the convenience store, anything. There could be a guy on the front lawn giving away a suitcase of money. Basically, group can take what I'm able to give them and, if that isn't enough, then they can fuck off because they're obviously not as ill as I am if they have the option to be so nauseatingly pious about something as trivial as timekeeping.
Ah yes, the doughnut.
So apparently walking in late eating a doughnut quadruples the severity of my crime. It's because of what they call "optics" in the business world. The natural flaw in human nature that assumes that as I walk into the hospital where my group therapy is held, I must be thinking, "Hmmm...I'm not really late enough yet. Maybe I should buy a doughnut just to really rub it in. That'd really piss everyone off."
What my esteemed acquantances fail to understand is that the coffee and doughnut at 5.30pm - or, just to bend to the finger-waggers - 5.50pm, may be my first meal of the day. If I'm so anxious that I can't leave the house then I can't do grocery shopping. If I can't do grocery shopping then eventually my food in the house will run out. If there's no food in the house then - naturally - I can't eat. D'uh. If I don't eat, then there is the chance I may either fall asleep or pass out during the two-hour group therapy session.
Besides, it's a big fucking deal for me to even buy a coffee these days. That's a luxury, a special treat, a once-in-a-month occasion. How can I possibly justify BUYING a coffee when I can make it at home for free? Bad enough that that's the case, let alone enjoying said coffee for the duration of the elevator ride just so that a bunch of whining people can make me feel doubly guilty for buying it in the first place. Maybe that's what they really mean when they say, "double double" in Tim Hortons.
Note too that the majority of criticism came from a group member who (a) has a job (b) has a lover and soul mate (c) owns their own house, (d) was bowing out from group that week anyway, forever. Wow. Must be tough to deal with this guy who has the audacity to turn up late with a coffee and doughnut. How to cope? Must be awful. What a shame. How infuriating.
For next week's group I must remember my place. I'll try to remember that as my arms convulse uncontrollably from the lack of venlafaxine in my bloodtsream because I missed Friday's dose, making typing a bit of a trial. As I sit here with my calves cramping up because I haven't consumed any fluids in 48 hours. Barely able to focus from such a long sleep, jawbone aching from the tension. It's not wellness, a career, friends, family that I need, I just need to be on-time to group therapy and everything will be OK.
Fuck that shit.
So now I'm not good enough for ANY Canadians. Not even those stricken with the same mental illnesses as me.
Way to make me feel alone, very alone.
Apparently drinking coffee and eating doughnuts is a crime in the country whose national emblem is practically a Boston fucking Cream.
What my dear acquaintances in group therapy fail to understand is that they're lucky I make it to group therapy at all. Indeed, being a few minutes late is a small price to pay when it would be so much easier for me to not attend. Some weeks it isn't even a choice. I don't choose not to attend, I just can't face the thought of leaving the house. It doesn't matter that it's group. It could be a meeting, a social event, a walk to the convenience store, anything. There could be a guy on the front lawn giving away a suitcase of money. Basically, group can take what I'm able to give them and, if that isn't enough, then they can fuck off because they're obviously not as ill as I am if they have the option to be so nauseatingly pious about something as trivial as timekeeping.
Ah yes, the doughnut.
So apparently walking in late eating a doughnut quadruples the severity of my crime. It's because of what they call "optics" in the business world. The natural flaw in human nature that assumes that as I walk into the hospital where my group therapy is held, I must be thinking, "Hmmm...I'm not really late enough yet. Maybe I should buy a doughnut just to really rub it in. That'd really piss everyone off."
What my esteemed acquantances fail to understand is that the coffee and doughnut at 5.30pm - or, just to bend to the finger-waggers - 5.50pm, may be my first meal of the day. If I'm so anxious that I can't leave the house then I can't do grocery shopping. If I can't do grocery shopping then eventually my food in the house will run out. If there's no food in the house then - naturally - I can't eat. D'uh. If I don't eat, then there is the chance I may either fall asleep or pass out during the two-hour group therapy session.
Besides, it's a big fucking deal for me to even buy a coffee these days. That's a luxury, a special treat, a once-in-a-month occasion. How can I possibly justify BUYING a coffee when I can make it at home for free? Bad enough that that's the case, let alone enjoying said coffee for the duration of the elevator ride just so that a bunch of whining people can make me feel doubly guilty for buying it in the first place. Maybe that's what they really mean when they say, "double double" in Tim Hortons.
Note too that the majority of criticism came from a group member who (a) has a job (b) has a lover and soul mate (c) owns their own house, (d) was bowing out from group that week anyway, forever. Wow. Must be tough to deal with this guy who has the audacity to turn up late with a coffee and doughnut. How to cope? Must be awful. What a shame. How infuriating.
For next week's group I must remember my place. I'll try to remember that as my arms convulse uncontrollably from the lack of venlafaxine in my bloodtsream because I missed Friday's dose, making typing a bit of a trial. As I sit here with my calves cramping up because I haven't consumed any fluids in 48 hours. Barely able to focus from such a long sleep, jawbone aching from the tension. It's not wellness, a career, friends, family that I need, I just need to be on-time to group therapy and everything will be OK.
Fuck that shit.
So now I'm not good enough for ANY Canadians. Not even those stricken with the same mental illnesses as me.
Way to make me feel alone, very alone.
29 April 2009
Cautiously optimistic
Lordy, that was a rough one. Definitely more depression than anxiety - the doldrums beat the anxiety attacks on a three day emotional disorder bender.
I'm better.
I wanted to say that before all else in case anyone has been unduly worried. When I write with candour I don't mean to terrify, but I guess if you're peering inside my head for the first time then it might be just a little...surprising. Don't forget that my shrink is CC'd in on all this so that I can be a walking, talking case study, which means it helps to be as candid as possible.
Isn't it strange to think that I'm proverbially scribbling by flashlight under the duvet, yet what I write can be seen be people on the other side of the planet. Instantly.
So the chaps in my life have been keeping me busy. Andrew and Ian on Friday, Sa'ad and the other Ian on Saturday. Sunday I had the most spectacular no-front-brake-ride in the Don valley. Alas yes, the saga of the ordered but not yet received hydraulic brake pads continues, though when I rolled out of bed today there was a note from Canada Post to say that I'd missed the 9.00am to 9.01am 'window' to collect them. Nice. So now I have to wait until after 1pm tomorrow to collect them. Fuckers. I used to have the same hate-hate relationship with Royal Mail in the UK too.
However, as said, it is still possible to ride. The riverside trail is navigable without a front brake, as is Tommy Thompson Park/Leslie Spit.
Talking of the latter, a funny thing happened the other day. As I zipped my way back towards mainland from the grassy side of the spit, my left crank started to fall off. This is weird and ominous and stuff, because the same thing happened in my first 'open' ten mile time trial in the UK, circa 1986. The reason I bring it up though, is because I was strangely calm. All because I simply didn't believe that I would have to walk my bike the whatever-it-is miles from South of the Lakeshore Boulevard to North of the Danforth.
The first person I came across was a twitcher. He was very helpful but had only a Swiss Army knife on him. My problem was that I needed an 8mm Allen key to re-attach my left crank. Alas, it wasn't that I needed to remove a stone from a horse's hoof, file my nails, open a bottle of champagne, trim the leaves from a fine floral bouquet, or poke something with that funny pointy thing. I wished him well as I replaced the crank and tightened the bolt attaching it to the rest of the bike as tightly as I could with my lillywhite fingers.
Ten minutes later I repeated said tightening process, having ridden the nearest path possible from shrubland to tarmac, or should I say asphalt. The chap manning the gate and the end of the spit didn't have a toolbox with him, but I spied a guy fixing a puncture just before Canadian Tire.
The point is that he had a 8mm hex wrench, I fixed it, and all with not so much as a single flap. No nerves. No dread. And that's the thing about anxiety - there is no rational fear behind your feeling of dread. When my shrink asks me, "So what did you fear would happen?" I can't answer, because it's intangible. It's the fear of something so horrible I haven't even though of it.
There's never details. No specific bones broken, no bloody crime scene...just that sickly feeling.
My mind is backing up with thoughts so I'm just going to post this and try to catch up in the background.
I'm better.
I wanted to say that before all else in case anyone has been unduly worried. When I write with candour I don't mean to terrify, but I guess if you're peering inside my head for the first time then it might be just a little...surprising. Don't forget that my shrink is CC'd in on all this so that I can be a walking, talking case study, which means it helps to be as candid as possible.
Isn't it strange to think that I'm proverbially scribbling by flashlight under the duvet, yet what I write can be seen be people on the other side of the planet. Instantly.
So the chaps in my life have been keeping me busy. Andrew and Ian on Friday, Sa'ad and the other Ian on Saturday. Sunday I had the most spectacular no-front-brake-ride in the Don valley. Alas yes, the saga of the ordered but not yet received hydraulic brake pads continues, though when I rolled out of bed today there was a note from Canada Post to say that I'd missed the 9.00am to 9.01am 'window' to collect them. Nice. So now I have to wait until after 1pm tomorrow to collect them. Fuckers. I used to have the same hate-hate relationship with Royal Mail in the UK too.
However, as said, it is still possible to ride. The riverside trail is navigable without a front brake, as is Tommy Thompson Park/Leslie Spit.
Talking of the latter, a funny thing happened the other day. As I zipped my way back towards mainland from the grassy side of the spit, my left crank started to fall off. This is weird and ominous and stuff, because the same thing happened in my first 'open' ten mile time trial in the UK, circa 1986. The reason I bring it up though, is because I was strangely calm. All because I simply didn't believe that I would have to walk my bike the whatever-it-is miles from South of the Lakeshore Boulevard to North of the Danforth.
The first person I came across was a twitcher. He was very helpful but had only a Swiss Army knife on him. My problem was that I needed an 8mm Allen key to re-attach my left crank. Alas, it wasn't that I needed to remove a stone from a horse's hoof, file my nails, open a bottle of champagne, trim the leaves from a fine floral bouquet, or poke something with that funny pointy thing. I wished him well as I replaced the crank and tightened the bolt attaching it to the rest of the bike as tightly as I could with my lillywhite fingers.
Ten minutes later I repeated said tightening process, having ridden the nearest path possible from shrubland to tarmac, or should I say asphalt. The chap manning the gate and the end of the spit didn't have a toolbox with him, but I spied a guy fixing a puncture just before Canadian Tire.
The point is that he had a 8mm hex wrench, I fixed it, and all with not so much as a single flap. No nerves. No dread. And that's the thing about anxiety - there is no rational fear behind your feeling of dread. When my shrink asks me, "So what did you fear would happen?" I can't answer, because it's intangible. It's the fear of something so horrible I haven't even though of it.
There's never details. No specific bones broken, no bloody crime scene...just that sickly feeling.
My mind is backing up with thoughts so I'm just going to post this and try to catch up in the background.
28 April 2009
Woah there Nelly
I can't write a full entry just now because the deadlines I've been procrastinating about are now biting me on the arse, so I have to focus on those.
However, it should be noted that for the last two or three days I've been better for a number of reasons.
The other really important thing to note is that I didn't suddenly wake up one day this April feeling the way I've described. This may be new to you, dear reader, but I've felt this way on-and-off since I was around ten years old. It was only when I was diagnosed some 25 years later I realised that everyone else doesn't feel the same way.
More to follow...
However, it should be noted that for the last two or three days I've been better for a number of reasons.
The other really important thing to note is that I didn't suddenly wake up one day this April feeling the way I've described. This may be new to you, dear reader, but I've felt this way on-and-off since I was around ten years old. It was only when I was diagnosed some 25 years later I realised that everyone else doesn't feel the same way.
More to follow...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
