I don’t get up to much lately. Living the life of a gentleman of leisure doesn’t involve a lot more than the front page of reddit, scrolling the infinite feed that never leaves me bored. I also tend take a lot of naps; partially cause I’m a poor sleeper, partially cause it makes the hours go by faster (and as a person who does his best to never be sober, it resets my tolerance).
On Ottawa’s bridge of locks, overlooking the Rideau Canal.
I want to devote myself to the pursuits that interest me, but being productive hasn’t been easy. I haven’t had the inspiration to write, the motivation to clean, the energy to exercise, the discipline to practice, or the patience to meditate. I only manage to do the bare minimum, which usually just involves cooking a week of meals for Heather and some vacuuming before guests arrive.
It’s been hard to form positive memories cause I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds. It always seems like there’s something better to do, another button I can press for a quicker reward. Everything just becomes a distraction from how broken I feel.
Chocolate poutine, where the “fries” are churros, the melted “cheese curds” are marshmallows with vanilla ice cream, the “gravy” is crunchy hazelnut fondue, and the “panties” are dropped. Then everything is covered in Maltesers and drizzled in chocolate sauce.
Maybe cause I’m older, greyer, fatter, more tired, a shadow of my former self. Most nights I go to bed feeling defective or worthless, then wake up feeling too helpless to do anything about it. A few months ago this would have been a surefire recipe for depression, but now I’m trying to practice non-action over weeks and months instead of days or hours.
Coming to terms with myself and my difficult emotions — no matter how unpleasant they may be — is helping me reduce my wants, end my compulsive struggling to do everything better, and live more in the moment. For so long I’ve been trying to accept the things I cannot change, without also trying to accept the person to whom they’re happening.
Leaning into my trauma with open eyes and an open heart also involves purposely thinking about a past I’ve tried my best to forget, and crying. It hasn’t been very pleasant, but I’m starting to feel like less of a victim when I can confront my suffering from a position of strength and control.
I haven’t had a colitis flare-up in a couple years, which means I put on weight quickly, mostly in the mid-section. These days I can’t fit into all my pants and rock a dad bod. For the first time in my life, I’ve been cutting back on portions and snacks.
None of this would be possible without Heather, who’s been mending the hole in my heart ever since we met. She’s the only reason I have the time, the resources, the strength, and the will to carry on. Anytime I feel like a burden, she reminds me that I’m a worthy one; a load she gladly shoulders, because I add to her life simply by existing.
When I overhear her telling the cats to be good and take care of daddy before leaving for work every morning, I can’t help but believe it. No one has ever loved me so much — not even myself — and as my benefactor, she wants nothing more for me than to be happy. I’m trying to take responsibility for that happiness by showing myself compassion, even when I feel like I haven’t earned it.