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 torturously 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 afterwards) 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.