Hello December

I've been really sick, and really depressed. Those are my only two excuses for the blog lag.

Happily all went well with the neurologist appointment. He was a very kind doctor. Kind and compassionate, and intuitive. I found myself wishing he were my therapist rather than Dr Truth. But at any rate, he acknowledged/diagnosed my condition and told me I would be seeing him once a year to monitor its progress, and assured me that it's no cause to worry, and I do not display the symptoms of Parkinson's or MS. (Which were what I was largely afraid of.) To say I was relieved is putting it mildly.

Today was the first day this week that I went to work, but I left early because I'm still pretty ill. For 5 days now I just can't seem to feel comfortably warm. The weather's turned cold since the weekend and took my blood with it, it would seem.

So right now I'm wrapped in a blanket (doing battle with the wheels on my desk chair) and waiting for my laundry to finish, so I can throw it all in the dryer. I really had no desire to venture into the cold basement, but given the alternative of running out of clean underwear, I have braved the laundry room in the name of Joe Boxer. The real trick here, will be resisting the urge to bury myself in toasty-warm clothing when all that laundry comes out of the dryer. I may do just that before I do any folding.

On the Scooter front, we had a date on November 29th. As per usual, not as planned. Originally, he had said he'd take me to some great restaurant he loves (his treat) but when it came down to it, we went to Subway because he spends all his money on weed and his Christmas shopping has only just begun. No matter. All I've ever wanted is time with him. I got to meet his 3 month old kitten, Zoey. I took pictures of her with my new camera, that I got from Airmiles that day. We spent the evening watching The Munk Debates which I both fascinating and frustrating. I loved that they could have SUCH a civilized discussion with opposing view points for one. But I found it frustrating that such a poised and eloquent man as Tony Blair could be arguing in favour of religion. I don't know if someone less civilized would have satisfied me more, or what. But I found it strangely non-gratifying that his points were (in my opinion) so lame and candy-coated. Christopher Hitchens barely had to speak at all to debunk everything Blair said. In itself, I should find that rewarding given my stance on religion. I'll just leave it at that. I really enjoyed that Scooter wanted to watch it though.
By the end of our evening, he was of course high, and I was rubbing his feet. Putting him to sleep with a foot rub was preferable to getting him sexually aroused with a back rub, which he requested and I declined, knowing it would only lead to more mixed-messages and time apart. When he did fall asleep, I kept rubbing his feet for a while, watching he and Zoey asleep in his chair, and reminiscing about nights we've spent together in the past, that I'd probably sell my soul to repeat. Then, I gently woke him and told him I was going home.
We hugged. We kissed. We nuzzled. And I headed for my coat and shoes.
We kissed again, more passionately, which he ended.
I said good bye.
He said we'd talk soon.
I left, feeling more sexually aroused than I've ever felt.
We have not spoken since then.

And that... leaves me thinking yet again, with little doubt, that he is fucking with my heart yet again.

I don't understand it. I don't want to delve into it. I just know that the pictures of Zoey I sent him on the first (before the appointment, I expressed so much fear over - to him as well) is the last e-mail I will send him. There was no reply. Not even a "thanks". No inquiry into how I am after seeing the neurologist. And no discussion of further plans to see one another.

Long ago (weeks) was the last text message from me, and weeks before that was the last phone call from me. I just can't try anymore.

He doesn't contact me. He doesn't reply when I contact him. He does... not... care... about... me.
I can only conclude, that he invited me back into his life after almost 7 months of silence, just to show me yet-again, how little he cares about me. And I let him do it.

I can flip-flop between indignation, and determination on the head of a pin. Excuse his behaviour because he's just so fucking dysfunctional and damaged, and condemn his behaviour for the same reasons, but in light of what would seem a pretty cut-and-dried decision that he doesn't deserve anything I have to offer... I still love him. And though for my own good, I'm not going to try anymore, I will be here for him if he needs me. At least that's what I'm saying in this five minute interval. Ask me again in the next.

I guess I did want to delve into it. Of course I did.

Move on Johnny. Move on. Don't just walk away. Run.

There is nothing he could do at this point in time to make me believe he loves me in any capacity, as a friend or lover. I just can't give up on him. WHY!!!!!???? Why is my learning curve so long and slow? Why do I value this broken boy over my own self-worth?

Ugh.

If I've never mentioned before, my bedroom is aligned with the building's elevator shaft. I hear the movements of all 3 elevators diving and raising, night and day. Over the past few days, much of which I've spent in bed, I've noticed one of them making the most disconcerting noise. It's alarming. Almost like a metallic "yelp". I don't know which one obviously, or even whether it's ascent or descent. But is that the kind of thing I should report to the superintendent? I think I just answered my own question. And I think I'll do it right now. ...There. Did it. And the super, (ever-charming) said with a sigh, he'd call the elevator company tomorrow. Whether or not he does is another thing entirely, but at least an accident won't be on my conscience.

In other boring news, I'm quite pleased with myself that I replaced a CD/DVD burner in my computer. This is noteworthy because I have never opened a computer casing before, much-less removed or installed any hardware. I wouldn't have done so at all, had I not been tutored and assured by "Totty", our computer engineer at work. I did it, perched high on my balcony on Saturday, before I was feeling so deathly ill. (catalyst perhaps - 'cause it was so fucking cold.) I had to do it out there because "Totty" told me the casing would be filthy, since it was a dusty tomb that had never been opened in four years. Which it really was.
Since I did the deed though, and got it all back together successfully, my computer has been running so QUIET - Holy cats man! The fan has either been disabled (not beyond the realm of possibility) or doesn't need to run anymore because the circuit boards were cleaned with a can of compressed air. It's made talking on Skype with Lion so much more easy. (because I don't have to mute my microphone after everything I say to drown out the sound of the fan) - Nice.

Though I still haven't taken it upon myself to burn a CD to see whether the hardware works. *blush*

Tonight I may just finish off Season 3 of Arrested Development and go to bed early. I've cruised through so many episodes, so easily because it really is as good as it's acclaimed to be. Hysterical really.

I leave you with a song by Canadian indie artist Peter Katz, whom I first heard on CBC 2 months ago. There are no (written) lyrics for me to share with you (if only because I'm too lazy to transcribe it.) but he sings with great clarity, so you should be able to hear the words pretty well. This video contains a story of how the song came to be and the recording of Peter's part. It's pretty touching. 'Something I needed to finish a "why not give up" day with. I encourage you to give a click and listen to "Oliver's Tune" (this link contains the finished song) (but use the mp3 player in the top right hand corner, not the video, which is a tutorial of how to play the song).

Shaky on Every Front

My anxiety is taking over.

I have an appointment with a neurologist on December 1st. As this date approaches, the fear I have about it gets a stronger foothold. I realize that fear in the face of something that needs investigation is pretty counter-productive, but I'm still afraid. For years now, I have noticed an increasing tendency for my hands to shake. Sometimes it's inhibiting to performing tasks. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I have very weak hands. Opening jars and bottles is an ordeal.

Of greater concern to me... the shaking has gotten significant enough for people to not only notice, but comment... a lot. I've inherited it from my father. He used to shake quite a bit. But according to my mother, he would never visit a doctor to have it examined. He didn't like doctors. He didn't like hospitals. No small irony that he died in one. But at any rate, if he did have some neurological disorder that he could genetically pass on to his son, I'm soon to find out. And I'm quite thoroughly terrified.

It could be nothing. It could be emotional stress. It could be that I need to set aside 10 minutes per day to scream and cry like a crazy person. As emotional as I am, I feel repressed. I feel like a person who's screaming and crying on the inside. Have you ever seen that episode of Six Feet Under where David has a waking dream of screaming during a funeral? I'm reminded of that.

Insecure thoughts are circling and rattling my cage. I'm thinking of how my parents had me late in life. I'm thinking of the legacy of poor health in each of their families. All of my uncles and aunts on my father's side, are all gone. 10 of them. All dead. My father was the youngest, and he's been gone for almost 19 years. The siblings on my mother's side including my mother are all still alive, and I figure if I can avoid the plague of obesity they all suffer from, I can dodge a few of the bullets they've all taken.

I have no delusions of living forever. And I don't think I'm afraid to die per say. I just don't want to be sick. I don't want to suffer and degenerate. Given the fact that I'm (as I've pointed out ad nauseum) alone in life, the prospect of being unable to care for myself is frightening. But I suppose no-more-so than the thought of sentencing a loved one to care for me.

Couple this (perhaps irrational) concern with the take-over at work... the approach of Christmas... my collapsing faith in any hope of a friendship/relationship/anything with Scooter... my overall stress of social interaction... and the pressure of merely existing....
And I think I've got a pretty good recipe for an all-systems-failure.

Taking a serious look at my health, and the potential to be really unwell, sheds a light on the fact that nothing really matters, but I don't know that I "live" that knowledge... so maybe a crisis, whether real or manufactured could be just what I need.

Shut it down. Shut it all down. Everything that's not key to my existence. The friends and family who don't bother. The job that, if lost, could force me into action I've never had the courage to take. Shut down the worry. Shut down the mother fucking future I cannot see and cannot change and could not affect otherwise. Shut it down. I don't want to think about it.

I want to be a tree. I want to long for nothing more than the sun hitting the greenery and the water that nourishes the roots. Fuck health problems. Fuck worry. Fuck being loved. Fuck being known. Fuck ever wanting to please another human being on this doomed ball of dirt. Fuck it all, for tomorrow I could be forced down by winds. Struck down by lightning. Cut down by some unwitting lumberjack. Today. This moment I still stand.

I stand and spout empty words about bravery and apathy I don't possess.

And I go that much more crazy.

*sigh*

I missed my appointment with Dr Truth today. Totally forgot about it. You'd think my mind would be on therapy given how stricken I feel. I'm going to be penalized 120-dollars for missing the appointment. Which makes me think I should stop making appointments in the event that I'm going to fuck-up and miss them. I can't afford to miss them. And it's not that I have issue with the concept. Dr Truth's time is valuable. I have to make appointments well in advance because his calendar is full. When someone just doesn't show up, it's a waste of his time. That doesn't alter the fact that I can't afford a 120-dollar fuck up. Yet, my co dependence asserts itself in the pattern of thought, that without him, I will have absolutely no one to listen to me fall apart. And my ego can't handle falling apart all by myself now, can it?

Last night I went to visit my soon-to-be-nephew in the hospital. He was in Toronto (or Markham rather) to have a hernia operated on. I didn't really want to go. It was a case of feeling it wouldn't matter to him whether I did or not anyway. I don't know him very well, and thought it might even seem weird that I would go and visit him, but... he was all alone with no family up here, in a boring hospital in the middle of nowhere. So I went. He's a nice kid. I like him a lot. Mind you, I took the opportunity to deliver the bad news that I can't afford to go to their destination wedding in January.
It took me an hour and a half to get there, and even longer to get home because I don't know the transit system up there very well, and missed a bus on the way back. It turned-out to be a blessing. I had to wait an hour, so I took refuge in a Shopper's Drug Mart and bought things I've been meaning to buy, but for whatever reason, haven't. I picked up the November issue of Details magazine with Chris Pine on the cover... band aids, tissues, peroxide, nail clippers (to replace the ones I sucked up the vacuum cleaner by accident) and probably most importantly... a bottle of Valerian Root. I wish I had some right now as a matter of fact. I've used it before for anxiety. There's really no reason why I should ever not be taking it. It brings on a wonderful wave of calm. Which makes up for it's horrible smell. (wet dog in a bottle anyone?)

I am grateful for my life. I am grateful for my problems that pale in comparison to the hardship that faces so many other people. I am grateful to be alive. To love and learn, and feel disenchanted with the whole ordeal. I am grateful to be creative enough to even wish to be a tree. And though it causes me self-afflicted misery... I am grateful to be self-aware. It simply must be better than ignorance and oblivion. Ok gratitude... stay with me. Balance me, ground me, heal me. I need your help so badly.

Rattling chains, fine-tuning the probe... unfurling the wings... the ghost-alien-angel will dwell among the humans another day.

Today's song of the day, is by Amy Grant. I will forever love this woman. I don't believe as she does, but if ever a true christian existed, I think it's her. So I'm not waiting for Jesus, but these lyrics speak to me anyhow. It's a great song.

Amy Grant - The Water

Quick sand
My heart is sinkin'
I try to run
But I can't stop thinkin'
I'm climbin' walls
I'm on the ceilin'
It's gonna take a miracle to heal me

I'm starin' down
Into the quarry
I see a stone
For every sorry
I'm on the edge
I'm goin' under
And after I die
I'm gonna rise from the water (oooh)

I wanna blast off
Let gravity disappear
I'm tired of fallin', fallin', fallin' from the weight of fear
Come and lift me up into the clean and clear
I'm waitin' on you, Jesus, in the water here
So come and wash me clean

The sky is red, there's
Blood on my hands
I can't deny
I'm guilty where I stand
The verdict's in
I hear them shoutin'
Send me a river to drown this mountain (oooh)

I wanna blast off
Let gravity disappear
I'm tired of fallin', fallin', fallin' from the weight of fear
Come and lift me up into the clean and clear
I'm waitin' on you, Jesus, in the water here
So come and wash me clean

Wash me clean

(Heaven wash me, Heaven wash me, Heaven wash me, Heaven wash me, Heaven wash me, Heaven wash me)