Between the overtime and the venture meetings with Aaron, the restless nights and the early mornings, I try to catch my breath. It’s good to be busy, but not when it means I don’t have the time or energy to write. This is the probably the most infrequent publishing period I’ve ever been through since the start of this blog. Thoughts develop in my head, but I’m not ready to get them down and hit publish yet. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, maybe it’s a front, maybe I’ve simply lost the desire to document every single detail of my life.

Through all of this I feel myself regaining some stability, although I tread lightly, remaining both conscious and cautious. This is the most I can say for now.

It was five days of relaxation, with someone I could spill my guts to. The only person who knows everything about me, every embarrassing experience I’ve had, every dark secret in the back of my mind. I could try, but I doubt that I would ever be able to explain my relationship with John. Let the indescribable remain so.

Most of the time was spent in conversation. In the car we would cruise. On the couches we laid ourselves out, both as shrink and patient. We revisited my old stomping grounds, the university campus with its dull, right-angle architecture. There was a bit of serendipity during his stay, the kind of happenstance that makes one question their sense of faith, fate, or lack thereof. After a series of random and correct turns, it was a sudden, rather terrifying, confrontation of months of meditation on the second introduction. Something I’ve been discussing with John ever since I started writing about it, something I wasn’t ready for at all, and something we happened to catch on camera.

…A week I’ve taken off as part of my available vacation days. There’s something satisfying about being paid to have fun. We haven’t seen each other in over half a year, so the five days will be calculated and precise, squeezing in the things that we’ve been meaning to do together in every available second.

On his way over, John was also able to pick up a small care package from my parents, complete with new dress shirts, loose leaf tea, homemade banana bread, ginseng (LOTS of ginseng that I can now add to chicken soup), and an assortment of books that I’ve been meaning to bring.

Even before the wedding began, I had already unfairly decided that I wasn’t going to have a good time. Thank god I was wrong. My initial feeling was based on the knowledge that certain agitating people were going to be there — a very tangible reminder of why we moved under cover of darkness for the last Bancroft farm excursion — but there were enough normal people to dilute any creepiness.

The ceremony was short and sweet. The food was the best I’ve had in weeks, although my gradual recovery from viral gastroenteritis meant that I could only have half of the portions served. The company at the dinner table was friendly and open enough to address everyone sitting (Tolstoy wrote well about such a difficulty in Anna Karenina when he describes “a small table with persons present, like the steward and the architect, belonging to a completely different world, struggling not to be overawed by an elegance to which they were unaccustomed, and unable to sustain a large share in the general conversation”). Aside from an idiotic analogy about asparagus, the speeches were generally well-written; not too trite, and all the more poignant from the emotion with which they were spoken.

Aaron was there as my wingman, ensuring a good time. Jenn was there as my date, making the guys jealous. I even saw Christine, although we never had a chance to talk. Apparently, I missed every time she waved at us, so she may have thought that I was ignoring or avoiding her, which may be why she flicked my ear as she was walking by my table. I still feel bad enough about missing her last birthday party.

Until dinner there was an open bar, with Corona and even Guinness on tap, as well as a strawberry margarita machine that could make them like smoothies. After dinner was the dancing, and by the time the we were through a dozen or so songs, it was already late, so we headed home.

It stopped raining, and the grey sky has turned black with the night. The refreshing smell of wet pavement and grass drifts lazily through my window, while droplets collect and fall from the overhangs of every house, a different sound with each varying height and texture. Cars drive by, and I imagine the spray from their tires rising and falling in the light of the mild, golden street lamps.

In person, I’m generally very private about my life, but I find myself opening up to the strangest people lately.

The most unexpected ones seem to care.

I have an extremely difficult time dealing with people who choose to complain about something and do nothing about it. These are the people who gripe about the jobs that feed them, decry the relationships they’re too scared to leave, pine for better lives when a better life is only a few steps away. Religious doctrines of predestination aside, as humans we’re the masters of our fate. We control what happens, because we have the responsibility — the response ability — to make change happen.

And when life hands you lemons, make lemonade, try to find a guy whose life has given him vodka, and have a party.

I felt like I was constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown over the weekend. It’s been a while, but I started thinking about suicide again. Not a heavy-hearted consideration, simply something I was turning over in my head. Suicide only makes sense when the good outweighs the bad, long-term considered, and for a moment there, it felt like the future had nothing to offer. I had lost interest in all the small things that keep me sane on a day-to-day basis; the movement of my music, the company of my friends, the comfort of my writing, the memories of my relationships. The problem was that I couldn’t explain the feeling, which was more scary than anything else, as someone who takes pride in knowing himself through and through. It was a completely irrational pattern of thought, and I knew it, but I couldn’t convince myself of it. The only reason I could come up with was a chemical imbalance, caused by a rather sudden abstention, along with a general feeling of sickness I’ve had since the beginning of the month.

I have more to live for than most people I know, but none of that meant a thing. This gave me some minor panic attacks, because I’d lost my reasons for living, and more significantly, never saw them improving. I started to understand how beautiful, influential, famous, successful people like Margaret Laurence, Elliot Smith could kill themselves. All I knew is that I didn’t want to be one of those people. One of those people who took their lives suddenly, irrationally, without any notice. The step-mother who fought life-long depression. The friend who just decided that they couldn’t deal anymore. If I was going to die, I’d at least wait another year, another ten years to see if the anything would change or improve, because life is worth it. I started playing Ratchet And Clank to keep my mind off anything heavy, and kept playing 12 hours through the repetitive motion symptoms. I discovered that it’s one of the most remarkable games I’ve ever experienced, and it let me know that I can still enjoy things. That’s at least one reason, right? Or am I living backwards, desperately clinging to what I have left, trying to justify my existence?

After explaining it all to John last night when he got home, my situation started to make sense again. Some things only do after I say them. I confided in Shirley today too, even though she doesn’t fully understand, and never could. She told me that she’d go to hell and bring me back just to kill me again. Hearing that brought a little smile to my face. I feel better in a very general, inexplicable sense, and am left with a slightly worrying, unsettled feeling.

This is probably one of the most difficult entries I’ve ever written. Even now I don’t know why I felt compelled to do so. Being able to means that I’m at least temporarily comfortable enough to speak about something that I’m terrified of thinking of.

Dolly’s new nickname is Butterball. Kat’s christening. She sure hasn’t lost any weight lately. Dolly, that is, not Kat.

I spend my time squaring away everything in my room so that I’m comfortable enough to write. The extra cables are gone, as well as the random receipts and bus transfers that somehow end up on the carpet. My mirrors are all in place, making the room seem twice as big, but I when I look I only see myself, slouched comfortably in my chair, hood over my head. Even Dolly has wondered in to lay herself flat on the empty floor. By the time I’m done cleaning, I’m at a loss for all the things I’ve been trying to get into well structured paragraphs.

A new episode of Trailer Park Boys is playing on Showcase, and I’m watching it with the sound off because too much information would ruin the fourth season, something I’m determined to see in order from the beginning. Ricky’s in a high school, completely out of place as a thirty-something man in shop class trying to make some hash or grow some weed or harvest some kind of narcotic, and this only adds to my amusement.

I’ve been letting my hair grow out, à la Matt Heafy in the video for Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr. Somehow, I’ve only now discovered that my hair naturally grows towards the front, and by brushing it forward, it still looks respectable when I haven’t had it cut in a month and a half.

I’ve been in an odd mood lately. Thoughts branch off in my mind, but nothing seems solid enough to follow through. Inspiration always comes the day after today.

My spirit is burnt and there’s blood on my hands
The more I’m down, the less I understand
Once so found, now so lost
I ask no questions,
It’s just one more bridge to cross

—Black Label Society, Bridge To Cross

I feel like a complete wreck. Between the deadlines at work are the constant fires I’m responsible for putting out that slow my progress to a halt. My office is a flurry of paper drafts, computer parts, miscellaneous boxes, and to-do reminders. Concentration is difficult because I’m starting to get lethargic and weak. I haven’t eaten anything decent in a week, although I seem to be stomaching certain foods better today. I left work early to see a doctor at the walk-in clinic, only to find out that the volume of patients had already exceeded the available business hours for the day. I feel so helpless when I’m sick. All I can do is put the right things in my body, keep the wrong things out, and wait for my immune system to catch up. It’s tortuously frustrating.

John changed his availability at the wedding after I already requested that Tom squeeze him in. This not only reflects very poorly on me when I have to ask Tom to change his plans again, but also means that one of the only people who could save me won’t be there. I’m going to this wedding as a special favour to Tom (the reason for which I’ve chosen not to discuss until afterward) because I respect him and want to support him, and that’s more important than anything else. Even Aaron seems to be breaking my balls today, but I’m trying to assume that it’s just me.

For the first time in my life, I snapped outright. A completely unexpected, physical, violent outburst.

 

To calm myself down, I bought an M249 Para, a Fabrique Nationale Five-SeveN (20 rounds a magazine make this a personal favourite), some kelvar, and perched atop a tactical staircase, guarding myself against an army of knife wielding enemies. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t help, if only for a little bit. 6x anti-aliasing isn’t hard to look at either.

I’m trying to be stoic, but it’s difficult when I’m not only mentally, but physically drained as well. All I need to do is make it through the month. One day at a time.

One of the keys to blogging is to never give a shit about what anyone else thinks. Never write for an audience. Never censor oneself based on what other people may say. Never be embarrassed or ashamed to admit anything.

Otherwise, one isn’t being true to oneself. If there are those who are nosy, those whom we’d rather not have reading, that should never be an issue. I may have my fair share of creepy internet stalkers (one is already more than enough), but I refuse to let that stop me from saying what’s really on my mind.

It may be difficult to let go, but it’s worth it. The freedom is completely empowering. Blogs are a personal space, as public as they may be, and should be treated as such.

Expression is an act that should never be hindered by something as harmless as opinion.

I went in for a few hours of work, which was torture without having consumed more than 40 grams of carbohydrates, 8 grams of protein, and 180 calories in the last three days, but really, I can’t afford to be sick. I’m going to try to make it in for a few more hours tomorrow, if I don’t feel as weak and light-headed, but they already know that I may not be coming in at all. To stave hunger and dehydration, I’ve been drinking as much water as I can before it makes me feel nauseous again.

John also said something that hurt me enough to make me cry (somehow I manage to lose more fluids). Even though his offhand comment was uncalled for, it’s partly my fault; being either hungry, tired, or sick can make me into a very cantankerous person, but all three combined is as dangerous as juggling chainsaws. In reality, it’s no excuse. I’m determined to apologize the next time I speak to him. As starved as I am, pride is always a hard thing to swallow.

I stepped outside in the late evening, wearing my cotton hoodie, and realized that it was still too warm to be wearing anything with sleeves. It felt completely odd to be outside in the dark, when the sun already sets so late this time of year, and still be uncomfortably warm. I was reminded of past summer nights spent with Darren, being in the middle of the park at midnight with nothing but a blackened sky above us and a jungle gym around us. It made me realize that I haven’t been out past sunset since I’ve moved here, something I don’t particularly mind when I have the comfort of a house, a computer, and a housemate.

Hence the absence from work. It feels like the long weekend burned me out, and I need another one. Thank god it’s already Wednesday.

Really, it’s probably just a mild stomach bug, causing my body to reject everything but very dry, thinly sliced toast that comes in packs of eight, named after the stage name of Australian opera singer Helen Porter Mitchell. I suspect that I’ll also be able to consume collagen processed from pork skin, cattle bones, and cattle hide, but I’m still waiting for it to set in the freezer.

I feel so helpless when I’m like this. I generally don’t worry about much, but health is the only thing that I can’t look at cerebrally. I’m not even comfortable writing this. It just keeps making me think of how bad I feel. Too nauseated to fall asleep. Too tired to do anything else.