August 6, 2015

Day One

“Throw away the radio, suitcase keeps you awake
Hide the telephone, the telephone
Telephone, in case you realize
That some days, you’re just not okay
You’ll level off, you’ll level off, you’ll level off

And it’s not alright now
You need to understand
There’s nothing strange about this
You need to know your friends
You need to know that

I’ll be wavin’ my hand
Watching you drown
Watching you scream
Quiet or loud

And maybe you should sleep
And maybe you just need, a friend
As clumsy as you’ve been
There’s no one laughing
You will be safe in here
You will be safe in here

Throw away this very old shoelace
It tripped you again
Try and shrug it off, shrug it off, shrug it off

It’s only skin, now
Now you need to understand
There’s nothing fake about this
You need to let me in
Watching you and

I’ll be waving my hand
Watching you drown
Watching you scream
No one’s around

And maybe you should sleep
And maybe you just need, a friend
As clumsy as you’ve been
There’s no one laughing
You will be safe in here
You will be safe in

I will be waving my hand
Watching you drown
Watching you scream
Quiet or loud

And maybe you should sleep
And maybe you just need, a friend
As clumsy as you’ve been
There’s no one laughing
You will be safe in here
You will be safe in here

Well, you will be safe in here
In here, in here
In here, in here
In here, in here”

– “Clumsy” by Our Lady Peace

On July 29th, I tried to kill myself and no, I am not okay. But there is a plan in place and there’s a faint glimmer of hope in the distance that I will be.

It was not a cry for help. When I tried to kill myself twice before as a teenager, those were cries for help, from a kid. What happened last week was an adult making a conscious decision to cease existing and let the consequences of that decision be whatever they may be because if all went as planned, I would be worm food and unable to feel, see, hear etc. any of the aftermath and ultimately I knew my people well enough that they would be perfectly okay without me, perhaps even better off. If not? I would be nothing, there would be no such thing as Me, I would never know the difference.

Obviously, I failed. And trust me, it was not for lack of trying (but definitely due to lack of planning). If I wasn’t actively avoiding the internet right now, I’d be googling “how the fuck am I alive right now?” because I took what seemed to me to be a hell of a lotta cyclobenzaprine, clonazapam and trazodone. I didn’t overdose on any of my serious psych meds because I was afraid they’d leave me retarded if I failed. I thought I’d fall asleep and just never wake up. Instead, cops broke down my back door (which I had locked, and I had locked and put a chair up against my office/front door) and told me I could get out of my bed and come to the ambulance quietly or they could cuff me. I went mediumishly…voluntarily, swaying and stumbling, yet still saying “fuck the police” (which apparently they hear so often, they just refer to it as “ftp”) at an audible level about 25 times between my bed and the ambulance. I owe one of the cops an apology and a “thank you” and it’s something really bugging the crap outta me, actually.

At the hospital they did not pump my stomach or give me charcoal, they just put me in the ICU hooked up to an ECG machine, the little finger thingy that measures your oxygen levels and an IV that they never hooked anything up to and just took out after letting me sleep for about 48 hours. Then they transferred me to Royal Victoria Hospital’s (RVH) psychiatric ward which was where I was also sent in 2006 when I had my psychotic episode which lead to my diagnosis of bipolar disorder I, generalized anxiety disorder and agoraphobia, and also the same hospital I spent 6 weeks in after coming seriously close to dying in 2011 from pancreatitis.

So now you wanna know why, right? Cuuuuuuz that’s the next logical question and the most difficult one for me to answer. It’s actually kinda funny, if you know me well enough or have been reading my blog for a really long time, you know that I have a billion different, ever-evolving reasons for why I didn’t get into advertising, choosing to drop out of school at the last minute instead, and I always say like, “Reason #3875736254 I dropped out of advertising…”. This is kind of the same thing. As a person who is depressed with suicidal ideations a lot, it’s a complex thing with a million tentacles. It occurred to me when I was 5 years old that killing myself was a legitimate option. Most people never see suicide as a legitimate option because most people don’t try to or successfully kill themselves, according to my retired extra special needs teacher friend, Carole R. who told me that about 14 years ago when I went to work with her for a day and met young children who had already taken measures to end their own lives or seriously hurt themselves for whatever reason it is we all have in common on these things.

I don’t know where it came from or how it started or why I peg it at 5, which was right when my mom married my stepdad, but that’s when it started as a tiny seed of an idea and then grew, like I said, into this thing with a million tentacles, as if there’s some chunk of my grey matter dedicated to just this one specific area, like building my own killswitch I guess, and for whatever reason “I”, “Me”, “Myself”, liked being in there and focusing on there. Not always, but…a lot.

This could be chemical or this could be “something else”. What that “something else” is, I have no idea because I’ve never really spoken to anyone about any of this with any real detail or seriousness. Everyone I know (plus a lotta strangers) knows I want to kill myself regularly. That’s, “just Sunny” at this point. Even this time, my own daughter thought my last words to her were just me being “melodramatic” when she read them after not being here or talking to me for several weeks. (Which I don’t fault her for, especially because she’s 17. Again, I’m avoiding the internet right now – all I have open on my computer is Word and Spotify because I just spent a week in a world without electronics of any kind and everything is so noisy in this one – so I don’t remember what I said to her or if she replied. I’ve seen her since I’ve been out, though, and we’re okay so it doesn’t even matter for the time being or even at all maybe.)

For the first 2 days at Georgian Bay General hospital where I was in the ICU from July 29th-31st the only communication I had with anyone not involved in my care, including AND (at the time), especially my husband Blake, was sending a short e-mail to my boss (cc’d to my coworker/friend it would impact the most/immediately as far as work was concerned) saying long story short: I tried to kill myself, they’re sending me somewhere 45 mins away to see a shrink* and I was sorry. That was the last time I saw my phone until yesterday when I was released from Royal Victoria Hospital (RVH). I think they said Blake called the hospital to talk to me but I refused his calls and I guess Amy also called when I was in there too but at that point I just told them to refuse all calls so I didn’t hear about anyone else.

On the 31st, around sunset, I was told that I would be taking a taxi cab from Georgian Bay General in Midland, to RVH in Barrie where they were more equipped to deal with me, which would be about a 45 minute drive and I would be accompanied by this nice lady security guard, who would get me signed in and then take the same cab back to Midland. I don’t know how much that cost because the taxi driver lady put a cover over the meter. I do know from listening to the conversations around me that the lady had $158 on her Visa and that wasn’t enough so they had to get one with a bigger limit, but despite that it made sense to me for them to do this than waste an ambulance on me. I was happy at the healthcare system’s ability/willingness to adapt so successfully to non-government community services.

I can’t remember if I had any conversations with the security lady. Mostly the security lady and the cab lady talked while I enjoyed the ride (car rides actually calm me). I don’t think this was their first time making this trip, though. When we got to the hospital, the taxi lady told the security lady that she was going to Tim Hortons to get them both coffees, what does she prefer etc. and then the security lady and I started navigating the outside of the hospital because it’s all new and ever-changing, up the elevator to the 3rd floor, and through the psychiatric unit’s front doors. I was processed by the security lady and hospital staff (at this point I had everything but those people tuned out completely) and taken to a dorm-like room with 2 empty beds with nice blankets, 2 floor-length cubbies and a nice, clean bathroom. The security lady wished me good luck and left. I have no memory of anything else that night, I just got in the bed facing the wall and window and went to sleep. I don’t think I cried, I was just kinda unable to process anything happening to me so everything shut down.

The next morning I woke up and a nurse told me where I was and asked me questions about how I got there but I couldn’t really communicate with anyone yet. All the drugs I overdosed on (plus the ones I was supposed to be taking for my mental illnesses that they never gave me the 2 days I was in Midland) were coming out of me and I was just confused and scared. I’m agoraphobic so I don’t leave my house and when I do, it’s with Blake, so I was TERRIFIED to leave my room. I’d been in the psych ward twice before this and I knew the kind of people/experiences can happen in them and I just couldn’t deal. I only got up to go to the bathroom and get cups of tap water that were never cold enough to quench my thirst.

On August 1st, a Saturday of a long weekend, I made contact with Blake because, like I said, I was fucking terrified, and that day was the first time he visited. He brought me clothes and some toiletries, my pencil case, the brand new pad of Bristol paper I’d bought 2 weeks prior for doing colouring pages, some food I could keep in my room and a 6-pack of bottled Diet Coke because we weren’t allowed to have cans and bottles just made more sense since they had lids and stuff. (I’m addicted to Diet Coke, this is just part of me being me. You will probably never see me without a drink in my hand of some sort.) All I had with me when I came in was my bag full of like, basic “purse stuff” because the cops wouldn’t let me pack anything to bring with me except my phone and wallet pretty much and the clothes on my back. I had a greyish-black, t-shirt weight cotton hoodie, my grey “RAP MUSIC MAKES ME FEEL INVINCIBLE” t-shirt, medium-weight cotton yoga pants and my crazy-assed Period Panties. (This is actually my standard uniform.) They let me keep my shoes, which didn’t have laces. My bag was taken from me and everything important from it was put in a bin at one of the nurses’ stations.

No electronics were allowed whatsoever. Not even an iPod to listen to music and there was no music in any of the rooms on the floor except for this shower radio that barely got one pop country station none of us wanted to listen to. The TV in the TV room was stuck on the sports channel because no one could find the remote and then when they *did* find the remote, they changed it to a “48 Hours” marathon on A&E, a “reality” show where there’s been a murder and the first 48 hours are the most crucial to solve the case, which in the 3 episodes I sat through, they did. (And all the victims were women.)

When I’m at home on “normal” Saturdays, I get off work at 11pm and usually draw or otherwise make art until 3-5am or however long I can stay up and then I sleep in the next day to compensate because it’s my first day off so I can and then on the Sunday night I do the same because Mondays are my other day off.

After Blake had left me because visiting hours were over, I left my sobbing roommate (who came in the morning after trying to kill herself the night before) and went down the hall to this patient activity room that had a bunch of big tables in the middle with about 15 or 20 chairs that I’d noticed never had more than a couple of people in it. The second I stepped inside I felt better because there were pencil crayons and markers (not very many and really shitty ones, but pencil crayons and markers nonetheless) on one wall in bins and there were colouring pages and Sudoku puzzles in clear plastic bins on the other and I identified it as an “art room”, a place where I could be comfortable, and decided to just draw. When I was little and upset, my mom would tell me to either suck my thumb or to draw (or both), so I just started drawing a webcam model I watch sometimes.

As I sat in there with my pencil, eraser and Diet Coke, drawing, I could see people walking up and down the hallway and glancing in at me from time to time but no one came in until about 9pm and that person was Rich. Rich is 25 and basically a pussy magnet and he knows it. He said his mother had him put in the hospital on his birthday. He’d been there for almost a month and was going to be there for another month, minimum. He’s schizophrenic with ADHD and at the time he was either coming OFF of some drug or reacting to a new one and he was pacing and antsy and like, just spun out and squirrelly. I think I was the one who spoke first, asking him if he was okay and that’s when he told me his situation. I asked him if he was hearing voices right that minute and he said he wasn’t and we just started talking to each other. He sat in a backwards chair tapping his feet, or pacing the room or doing semi-push-ups from the edge of the table, but able to carry on a conversation. I just drew while he mostly talked about his thoughts on weed, evolution and god and what is good and what his purpose is on this Earth and I have no idea what I told him about myself. I think I told him about my job. He told me I was a good artist and I told him he was a good kid and we decided we were friends. We just hung out in the art room talking while I drew until he calmed down enough to go to sleep around 11pm. The head nurse on duty told me that because it was a long weekend, she’d let the art room stay open until midnight, so I stayed in there and drew until then and then went to sleep myself.

Sunday morning I woke up, changed out of my “RAP MUSIC MAKES ME FEEL INVINCIBLE” t-shirt and put on my grey “SORRY I’M AWESOME” t-shirt and didn’t eat anything. I didn’t eat anything the whole time I was there except a handful of pistachios, a few crackers and about 6 Babybel cheeses. Because of the aforementioned pancreatitis, which is now chronic, I am a medical marijuana patient so I need cannabis before I eat so I *will* eat and then I need it again afterward to keep it down. If I don’t do this, it starts this godawful vomit cycle that often ends with me in the hospital in the worst pain imaginable. Also every time that happens, my pancreas is being damaged which makes me unable to actually absorb the food I eat. Medical marijuana is a weird thing in Canada where it’s accepted but the deal in the hospital was that I could only have it if it was prescribed by a doctor from that hospital and there was no chance in hell any of the psych staff would sign off on that so I didn’t even push it and just dealt the best I could with the few foods I know are okay for me. I also begged and begged for Zofran (anti-emetic) and pancreatic enzymes, even had Blake bring in my own, but they wouldn’t let me have them.

Sunday morning was also when my roommate and I acknowledged each other. We had been in similar states when we arrived and hadn’t started acclimating until then. Her name was Kimmie and she was small, blonde, frail and almost curled into herself. Mother of 2 older teenage boys. I had heard her wearily having a conversation with her husband of 20 years the previous day in our room when I was still too scared leave it, where I heard her ask him for a divorce several times, to sign the divorce papers when he got them and him telling her she was crazy and didn’t mean it. He’d brought her flowers.

Sunday morning I went to the bathroom to pee and of course my uterus had to start spotting; my period was going to be coming any second now. I’m thinking, “of-fucking-course” but it wasn’t enough to worry about yet so I just came out of the bathroom, saw Kimmie was sitting on the edge of the bed, and slightly joked to her that of all the times to have to have my lady rain, it had to be now.  She didn’t laugh because she was so down, but she did offer me a few maxi pads to use from her own supply, which I was grateful for. We briefly shared situations, and basically she had been this man’s possession for the last 20 years and finally he had stepped so far out of line that there was no coming back from it so she, like me, did a swan dive with pills and alcohol and that’s how she got where we were. Her telling me about her husband made me really appreciate mine, so that’s actually what prompted me to call Blake and ask him to come visit. Before that though, I told Kimmie we were in this together and from that point forward I tried to take care of her the best I could. They were giving her pretty heavy anti-psychotics that were making her sleep all day and pace the halls all night and she was just SO sad and confused, like a frail little bird. She didn’t want to come out of her room that day except to bathe twice because she didn’t know what else to do. And the clothes her husband brought her were ridiculous, like a fluorescent pink bikini top and an obviously too small sports bra instead of something useable, period panties not in the fun sense, and stuff that he just would have to have picked out of the very back of her closet or drawers to come up with. I asked her if she thought he did that to be a dick or if he was just a clueless guy and she said it was definitely him being a dick. I reminded her she was safe where we were and I even told her if she needed anything, like a bra, I would get Blake to pick her one up from WalMart in a heartbeat, just tell me her size, but the only thing she ever took us up on was a double double from Tim Hortons.

All Kimmie wanted to do on Sunday was sleep in the room, which I understood, so I took my pencil and eraser and Bristol pad and of course, a Diet Coke and went down the hall to see if the art room was open. It was and was empty, so I took a seat in the corner of the room and kept working on the colouring page I’d started the previous day.

The art room was used during the week for group therapy sessions and since this was a long weekend, one of the social workers, Clayton, a huge guy with ginger hair, used his own day off and his own money to run a game of bingo with giftcard prizes for Tim Hortons or the deli in the food court and a mani/pedi “group session” for those who wanted their toes done. Blake happened to be visiting during this part of the afternoon and I painted his toenails lovely shades of metallic turquoise and magenta, which all the girls got a big kick out of. Every single person who came into the art room that day looked at what I was drawing and told me how much they loved what I was doing and what a talented artist I was. I just said “thank you” and was friendly and open toward everyone because these were my people. These were people who knew what I was going through because they were there too.  Plus for the afternoon, Blake was there to help break the ice with all these strangers. He’s kind of a social butterfly.

It was during the bingo and mani/pedi sessions that I made friends with Amy, whose name was easy to remember because she had the same name as my close friend who had the same name. She has schizophrenia and was hearing voices when I talked to her but she couldn’t articulate what they were saying. Her case was special because the medications that kept her schizophrenia under control affected her heart condition, so it was a delicate balance she had to maintain to pretty much stay alone. She was a super sweet girl who asked me Monday morning if she could bring me back anything from the food court downstairs because she had privileges to go down there. I wanted to barf my guts up so I gave her money and asked her to get me a ginger ale, which she did and I was so grateful for because it made me feel slightly better. She was just a super nice, sweet person who liked to be useful. In fact, she was helping Clayton the social worker orchestrate these extra special group activities on the long weekend. There were other people at the bingo game but I’m not all that into bingo, so I mostly tuned it out and kept drawing.

Also during the mani/pedi group, I met Hurricane Sonya who was manic pretty much the entire time I was there and somehow talked me into braiding her thick blonde hair into a fishtail, which I hadn’t done on anyone since I was like, 11 years old, and Jason who came in later, a paranoid schizophrenic who was interesting to talk to but who stayed away from me after he asked me and Blake if we thought there were any correlation between vaccinations and mental illness and we both pointed out examples of mental illnesses existing way before vaccines.

All day Sunday, I sat in the art room drawing and socializing and was told 100 more times by 20 people what a great artist I was, which felt good and validating admittedly, but inside I was still so shell-shocked by the fact that this time I actually swallowed the pills instead of just thinking about it, which is something I really, honestly didn’t think I was even capable of doing again because when I did it the 2nd time when I was 15 and landed in Whitby Psychiatric Hospital for a few weeks, I hated being there so much (but loved being away from all the chaos that was my home life) that I vowed never to end up in a place like that ever again by my own hand and for 21 years, I had stuck to it. (2006 didn’t count because that was out of my control, but this time I did it to myself.)

Sunday evening after Blake left, some new patients came in and that’s when I met Malachi and Sharon.

I heard Malachi before I saw him. After drawing all day, I went back to my room to lay down for a little while around dinner time and when I was half awake, I could hear this voice in the hallway outside my room that reminded me of the trans character “Nomi” from the Netflix show “Sense 8”, so I thought, oh, maybe we have a transwoman now, but when I went into the art room for the evening and tall, slight, red-haired, bespectacled Malachi introduced himself and started telling me about the troubles he’d been having with his new wife’s family and the police, which was how he got where we were. From what I could gather, he’d had some kind of mental meltdown of some sort in the apartment he shared with his wife and he broke some of their dishes in the process. During that, not knowing what else to do, his mother-in-law called the police on him and the police charged him – for breaking his own dishes, in his own apartment – with something like “domestic mischief” I think he said, and because the police put it down as a domestic dispute when it was a mental health call, Malachi is not allowed to have any contact with his own wife or live in his own home until after his court date. Due to this, he and his wife wouldn’t be celebrating their 1st wedding anniversary together and he was pretty upset. I didn’t ask how old this kid was but there was no way he was older than 23 and he worked at WalMart.

It was also Sunday night that I met Sharon. I don’t know what her diagnosis was but both she and Malachi came from another psychiatric facility somewhere. Blake told me he noticed tons of scars on her wrists so that’s all I know. She reminded me in looks like Peppermint Patty. She had medium-length reddish brown hair and spoke so quiet and low, it was almost a mumble, but with effort you could understand her. She watched me draw for 2 days and told me multiple times that I had to figure out a way to make some money from my drawings. Most of the people there, except for Rich and Malachi, weren’t “internet people” so to speak. I tried to explain Patreon to them after Sharon suggested that and a bunch of folks agreed with her but I don’t think they really understood what I was talking about. No one had ever heard of “crowdfunding”, let alone its pitfalls.

Sharon and Sonya had been in the same psychiatric facility 4 times but this was the first time they were ever spending any time together and the two of them were like the dynamic duo, with Sonya being loud and manic and flagrant and Sharon following her around trying to keep her calm and quiet.

Sonya was loud and probably the ward’s biggest personality. She was honest and had even less filters than I do. She’d been to jail. She used to be addicted to crack. She was depressed before she came there. She had kids, lost kids, had her tubes clipped and unclipped and had another baby who was now 13 years old and Sonya really wanted me to draw something for her daughter’s birthday, which I said I’d do but really meant I’d get Blake to bring in copies of the more kid-friendly colouring pages I’d done, which we did on Monday.

Monday was much like Sunday except that the art room wasn’t open until 9am and I woke up at 7. Breakfast was at 7:30. I felt confident enough in having new buddies that I’d have somewhere to sit in the dining room so I went down during breakfast and sat with Amy and her roommate whose name I *think* was Deborah, and who was literally the most beautiful older lady I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life. When I sat down, they were discussing the fact that the night before, Amy, in a dead sleep, got 3 tea biscuits from one of her drawers and ate them all sitting on the side of her bed and then just fell back into bed and slept for the rest of the night. She was really freaked out, as I think I would be too. Deborah noticed that I have “Sunny” engraved in the arms of my glasses like a giant nerd and asked me about it, so I explained to her that in my day to day life, the only people who called me by my real name was my mother and doctors. She told me she liked my glasses and I told her I got them for like, $6 on the internet which sort of left her speechless.

After breakfast I went back to my room because the art room still wasn’t open and I talked with Kimmie about coming into the art room and colouring mandalas while I drew, which she ended up doing for maybe an hour but just after lunch she had a meltdown and needed some time to herself so I just stayed in the art room and, you guessed it, kept drawing, and talking to people and hearing what a great artist I was. I met a new girl there who had OCD and couldn’t stop coming into the art room, getting agitated by its messiness, cleaning it for 10 minutes, going away and coming back to do the same thing. She didn’t want to talk about how long she’d been there but what I gathered from Rich was that they were both in the acute part of the ward when they first arrived, meaning that at one point they were both pretty messed up, and she helped him navigate his way out of there and onto the main floor. The only other thing she volunteered about herself was that she was planning to move to Sweden or Switzerland, whichever one is closer to Italy, when she got out of there.

Monday afternoon when Blake came to visit me, he brought with him ginger ale, sushi, a beef teriyaki bento and spring rolls from my favourite restaurant in case I felt like eating anything that wouldn’t hurt me too much and my big black portfolio, which I asked him to bring because I knew I had one copy of each colouring page I’d done so far for patrons inside it, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to tell the copies from the originals and I wanted to give the copies to Sonya for her daughter myself. Also inside my portfolio were two large drawings of my girls that were originally going to be paintings, but I never finished them and I gave those to Sonya too because she seemed to be the most enthusiastic about them and I knew I’d never finish them. I encouraged her to do so, though. This was after I decided I didn’t want the Japanese food and started offering it to anyone who came in the art room. The OCD girl had a few pieces of vegetable tempura but wouldn’t take the rest, so I put notes on it all that said what it was and “plz eat me!” and I carried it all to the hallway where I encountered Sonya who asked what I was doing and when I offered her the food, she was like, “fuck yeah”. She ate most of it and shared a lot of it with other patients and told us when she sat in the art room to finish the bento that she had never had Japanese food before and that that was probably the healthiest meal she’d ever had in her entire life and I’d completely believed it.

After Blake left on Monday evening, I went to my room to check on Kimmie and she had just come from having a shower and was in her pajamas. I had told her previously that her ticket to getting out of there was to be out of her room as much as she was comfortable with and to participate in scheduled activities as much as she was able, which was unfortunately difficult because it was the long weekend and nothing was scheduled. She asked me if I would go to dinner with her and then go to the TV room to watch a movie with her because apparently they had found the remotes and we could do that now. The hospital had a bunch of VHS movies and she wanted to find a comedy and just forget about her life for a little while. So I told her we could do this. The TV room had a table and chairs that I could use to draw at while we watched a movie.

Well, when we got to the TV room, there were two guys watching that “48 Hours” show so we sat there and watched too, figuring when it was over, we’d ask them if they minded if we switched to a movie and then do that. Well, when the show was over, another episode started and it was apparent neither man was interested in changing the channel, so Kimmie and I sat through another episode of the show. After that one, both men left and it was about 5 minutes to 9pm, so I told Kimmie that she should pick a movie quick before they came back because if we started a movie right then, we’d have enough time to watch the whole thing before they closed down the room for the night. She chose “Patch Adams” and then she asked me if I knew how to put a movie on. I confessed I did not, but suggested we just try putting the tape in the VHS machine and seeing if it played automatically and if it didn’t, one of us would get a nurse to help us.

Before we even had a chance to try that, the 2 men from before came back in while Kimmie was in the middle of the room holding a VHS tape and looking at me and they sat down to watch the next episode of the “48 Hours” marathon. Kimmie looked at me like, “you ask them” and I looked at her the same way and we were both too chicken shit to assert ourselves with these men to get what we wanted so she laid on the couch and we both just watched another episode instead. And then another. And then it was time to go to bed.

I dreamt of war, which is typical. I always dream about war.

Tuesday morning Kimmie and I woke up around the same time, about 7am and we both got up and got dressed; her in a pink tank top and grey track pants and me in my lightweight, blackish hoodie and t-shirt of the same colour that said, “LESS CRAP MORE RAP” and my requisite yoga pants. See, me and Rich were having an unspoken “t-shirts that say stuff” war so that’s why I wore the 3 specific shirts I mention in this post. One of his shirts said “IT’S ALL ABOUT ME” and another had a list of negative things he was, like, “irresponsible”, and it ended with “…but a lot of fun.”. Not sure who won the war but I kinda think it was me because he ended up asking me where I got mine from in the end since all 3 shirts were made by the same Etsy shop.

Breakfast was late so everyone was milling about in the hallways or hovering around their doorways. Kimmie and I just sat on our beds and chatted about stuff and then all of a sudden from the hallway came this perfect female voice singing one of the songs from “Phantom of the Opera” at full volume and then a few seconds later a 2nd one joins her in perfect harmony. Kimmie and I rushed to the door to peek into the hallway to see who it was and it was this young girl who attempted suicide and who only left her room a few times that I was there and who also wore the same white lace dress every single time she did, and another lady who had grey hair. In the hour that breakfast was delayed, these two women entertained the entire ward with more songs from “Phantom” and I just kinda sat there thinking how surreal this all was. I was sitting in a hospital being serenaded before breakfast by mental patients! Who would believe this?

When breakfast finally arrived, Kimmie and I sat with Deborah, the beautiful lady with the pink cast, and the older lady who had been singing. Deborah asked me if I would write down the name of the company I got my glasses from, so I pulled out one of these little cards I just keep on me for writing little things down that has like, sunflowers and designs on it, just a little 3 x 4 inch card, and Deborah remarked about how cute they were and showed the other lady and explained what the company was, that they could get prescription glasses for less than $10 that looked no different from the ones you spend $200 on from the optometrist, so I wrote out a card for that lady too.

After breakfast I went to my room where I saw my doctor who had just gotten out of a staff meeting with the weekend staff and he asked me if I was suicidal. I said “no”. He then asked me if I wanted to go home, to which I said “yes” and he said, “okay I’ll go write the order, what prescriptions do you need?” So I told him and off he went. When I was admitted to Georgian Bay General, I was admitted on a 48 hour “form”, which was extended by 3 more days when I got to RVH and on Sunday they told me that if I stayed as a voluntary patient for a few more days, I could go home as soon as Wednesday or Thursday, so getting out on Tuesday was amazing to me and I was excited. (In hindsight, I’m not entirely sure I was ready to leave…)

Since the weekend was over, there were group sessions planned for the day on the big whiteboard in the hallway. The first one of the day was about “The Importance of Leisure”, which sounded pretty irrelevant to me but I went anyway because that’s how you get yourself out of somewhere like that and it seemed like what I should be doing so that’s what Kimmie and I did. Partway through the session, my nurse called me out of it and said that I should call my husband to come pick me up because at about 1:15pm, he would be done processing my release and I would be free to go. So that’s what I did. (Did you know it’s now 50 friggin’ cents to make a local call from a payphone and that if you give it a loonie ($1 coin), it won’t give you change? What kinda fuckery is that!?) Then I went back to the group room, finished that, then started telling people I was leaving and getting my stuff packed up.

I was sitting in my room with Kimmie looking at Mark Ryden’s giant “Pinxit” book that I got myself for my birthday this year but never had a chance to look at until I was faced with a whole lotta spare time to fill up, and we were just chatting when this blonde lady in a floral dress came in, introduced herself as Sandra and that she was a social worker. She asked Kimmie if she’d leave the room so she did and then Sandra started talking about what was going to happen after I was released. The Simcoe Children’s Aid was going to be involved because it was a domestic dispute about the cat and a shitty cop that led to this whole thing and that was just what happened automatically in situations where there’s been trauma in a family. When she asked me who my shrink was on the outside, I told her that I didn’t technically have one at the time because the mental health centre I go to in Midland was giving us the run around as far as getting me a new shrink after having serious issues with the one I had previously (who was new and came in after the shrink I’d been seeing for 8 years retired), passing us off from person to person. She said that was unacceptable and to come to her office, so I did, and there she got on the phone with the mental health centre and got me an appointment with a new shrink in September within about 15 minutes. One that even has a therapy dog in her office, which is already an excellent start. Then she got the social worker assigned to our family from the Children’s Aid on speaker phone and a home visit to talk to us all was arranged for the next day. Then she gave me the brochure and contact info for Catholic Family Services where I can apparently get free therapy, which we’re going to set up tomorrow because obviously I need it since I have no idea why or how things got to this point.

After that, Sandra walked me back to the hallway where my room was, wished me good luck and I thanked her for accomplishing in ½ an hour what’s been taking us months to get nowhere. When I started down the hall to go back to my room, I was like, “wtf?” because all my crazy hospital friends were sitting on the floor outside my room along the walls talking with Blake. They looked just as confused to see me because they thought I was in the room with the social worker with the door closed the whole time! I’d asked Blake to bring me about 30 of my plastic business cards that have photos of about a dozen of my different paintings on them like little artist trading cards with all my info on the back and I pointed out the e-mail address to every single one of them and said “please use that”. I got my hugs and said my goodbyes and be goods and then Blake and I walked out of the building, stopping to get a cold Diet Coke before leaving the building.

When we got to the car I loaded my vaporizer with cannabis and began to medicate while Blake and I talked and drove around until eating seemed like a good idea. I got a turkey sandwich from QuizYES but my stomach was shrunken so I only ate about ¼ of it.

When I got home the first thing I did was go to Wes, my 12 year old son, who was sitting at the computer playing Minecraft and I hugged him from behind for a long time and we just cried and I told him that I was sorry for doing that to him and I promised that I would never do that again as long as he lived.

Then I went into my office and got on the ground to say hi to each of my dogs who you could tell had really missed me and they weren’t sure how to be with me. Hoover just hung his head down and let me cry on his shoulder and Lucky licked the tears from my face before having enough of that nonsense and rolled over for a belly rub.

Wes came into my office and we talked a little bit about where I’d been. I asked him if he wanted to know everything that happened and he said he was good with knowing just what he knew but he confessed he had a pretty good idea of what I did.

I was so forlorn and fragile and scared and overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do so I asked Wes if he wanted to go play with the Polaroid camera with me so we went outside and wasted a pack of film. Then he decided to go back to playing Minecraft with his friends just as Blake was getting off of work (he works from home a lot). When he was done, I asked if we could go for a drive because I was just so fucked up trying to process everything that had happened and even though I’d only been out of the hospital for maybe 4 hours, I already wanted to go back and was missing my hospital friends and wondering what they were doing. I needed to calm down and like I said earlier, going for a drive usually calms me.

It’s now the end of day one of being out of the hospital. We navigated the Children’s Aid visit today successfully and the social worker dude is a really nice, understanding guy who is more than welcome to be all up in my business. I gave him my consent to talk to my family doctor and my psychiatrist after I talk to her in September and he told me that he’d actually heard really good things about her so that was reassuring. He also advocated for Catholic Family Services counseling.

So that’s the story up until now. Thursday (tomorrow) I get one day to breathe and then on Friday I have to deal with the police and the court and the charge(s?) being brought against me.

Y’know when you get so mad at your husband you want to kill him and you tell him so but you’d obviously never really do it? Yeah, don’t casually admit to that in front of a certain type of cop because guess what! Admitting out loud that you’d like to murder anyone is a crime in Canada and not just a phrase and Friday I have to go to the police station to turn myself in to be formally charged with whatever they end up charging me with and then they’ll escort me to the courthouse where there’s a special court for mentally ill people and I’ll meet my lawyer who we chose because she had her dogs on her “About Me” page on her website and she’s theoretically going to do all the talking for me. Blake’s going post bail if there is any. The judge could throw the charges out completely or they could stick and I’ll have a criminal record. I’ve never been in trouble with the police before and was clearly not in my right mind so the odds of anything serious happening to me like jail time or even anything other than the counseling and stuff that’s already in place is pretty slim, but being separated from Blake and going through the booking and mugshot process and being detained and in court all by myself is going to be traumatic for me considering I can’t even walk to the end of my driveway to get the newspaper or go to the grocery store or even talk to my own shrink by myself, and the bad cop from the day I tried to kill myself, the person who was the very tipping point for me to say “fuck it, let’s do this” and swallow 100 pills by his escalating the situation and being a power trippy bear instead of a compassionate human being responding to a mentally Ill person under duress, is probably going to be there to purposely work against me.

So that’s what happened and where I am. It is now 12:14am Thursday morning and I’m about to open an internet browser to engage in my own form of ASMR while still ignoring the 396 e-mails in my inbox and the 227 Facebook notifications I have according to my phone because I just can’t deal with that right now but hopefully I can start the cleanup process when I wake up. I’m not sure when I’m going to be ready to communicate 1-on-1 with people because I’m scared people are judging me and looking down on me and secretly (or hell, openly) wishing the pills had been successful. I’m scared that by telling the world that the Children’s Aid is involved with my family that people will assume I’m white trash and this is just yet another dramatic saga of my pathetic, trainwreck life. I’m scared because I know that no matter how much my friends are going to want to be there for me, I really don’t think any of them have ever been in a situation this fucked up. I mean, everyone has their stuff, but in all my years of talking openly about my depression and persistent suicidal thoughts on the internet and social media, not one person I know has been able to really say, “yeah, I know how you feel” so expecting anyone to be like that now is just dumb. And even the ones who try…they’ve all known me for over 15 years and in that time, they’ve seen me have two major mental health issues requiring hospitalization as an adult. I can’t say the same for almost any of them and trying to commit suicide for real, as an adult making a completely rational decision, is a whole other animal entirely.

The Children’s Aid social worker, named Anthony, when I told him some of my fears about being a bad mom on so many levels and being judged by everyone, just said, “you would be shocked if you knew how many and what kind of families we are involved with” so I’m taking him at his word, that sometimes shit just gets fucked up and you need outside help to clean up the mess and do better. And that’s where I am right now: at the mercy of kind people and in the process of starting from scratch and building my mental strength back up – again – just like I had to do in 2006. Even though I said I wasn’t suicidal yesterday and promised Wes I would never go that far again, there’s still a large part of me that wishes the pills would have just worked because what’s ahead seems so impossible for me to overcome or even get through. Blake says the goal now is to feel grateful that the pills didn’t work and most of me is already there but the framework’s pretty shaky.

So far I’ve only been able to message my two best friends to tell them that I’m home and that I love them and that I’m sorry. (And that I can’t deal with the internet or deal with time periods longer than 24 hours.) Blake’s been keeping my boss mostly in the loop but mental illness is pretty outside of her scope just culturally, I think. My well-being seems to be her first priority though and she said she had my shifts covered for 2 weeks last week so there is no real pressure to come back right away. (I work from home doing customer service for a large website.) I was aiming for Saturday because that’s usually the most fun work day of my week, but also the longest so I think I’ve pretty much decided against it, especially considering I may be traumatized from the day prior. Sunday and Monday are my normal days off so I think I’m going to aim to get back to work on Tuesday when my work week would typically start at 5am my time. I decided in the hospital that I was going to talk to my boss about maybe starting an hour or two later than I usually do and just work 2 less hours per day than I did before all of this happened. Work was 100% not even remotely a factor in any of this. I love my job. I get validation at my job because I’m good at my job and my life typically revolves around my job, medication and proper sleep just to maintain sanity. I’m scared my boss is going to see me as unreliable or as the weakest link and somehow inferior to who I was before all this happened. That I wasn’t really deserving of the extra praise and responsibilities she gave me a few months ago or that she’d think that very thing caused me too much stress and that’s why I did what I did. I dunno. I have to e-mail her but I don’t want to until I can give her a firm, committed date for when I’m coming back.

And now I think I have to be done writing this, send it into the world, and let it be whatever it may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(*originally they were going to send me to Penetanguishene Psychiatric Hospital which is just NO NO NO. I was lucky as fuck not to go there.)

 

July 2, 2014

Blake ate the misshapen fortune cookie.

Not sure I’m capable of a full post. Like. With paragraphs. I may just delete this line entirely.

I thought I was okay and then I saw this (which is awesome and I will read later, but you should read NOW…this post is a bummer and can totally wait) and it was like someone sucked all the air out of the room and I couldn’t breathe.

At least she waited until she probably knew I was done working or maybe she just waited as long as she  could, but this morning I got the first dated e-mail.

You can tell how serious or important something is by whether or not my mother’s dating the e-mails in the subject line.

Grandma. July 2 2014

Not unlike the e-mails people got 3 years ago this summer, “Sarah. July 2 2011”, events to which I had already been thinking about very recently, and as I figure I will for probably the rest of my life:

big sudden decline
grama (except she spells it right)’s been on oxygen since Thursday
increasingly more oxygen
now triple

{sarah reads: GRAMA CAN’T BREATHE, SHE MUST BE SCARED.}

palliative care asap
ps. no internet at grama’s. you may not hear from me until tomorrow.

Sarah pulls up her grama panties, e-mails back something pithy and decides priority 1 is that I e-mail work, tell them, again, that this time, for real this time, it’s gonna happen. I will need time off. I will e-mail with more info as I have it, here’s my schedule, thanks in advance. Luckily I am friends with everyone I work with, on some level anyway, and I’m not too terribly worried about work because I don’t think people have funerals on Saturdays and what are the odds she’ll die on my worst day? (Pretty good, actually, if the history of our relationship is any indication but it was work and I included our boss so I didn’t wanna get slap happy and umb out of shock or whatever, as I may be doing right now.) Time off no questions asked only happens for death and Xmas. I know my bosses would work my shifts if necessary. Both of them.

I am totally completely babbling but see? I’m wearing my grama panties. Work. The responsibility. The money. Priority 1. God I could throw up. I may throw up. The day is young and I am severely undermedicated. I’m betting my mom e-mailed her work/money/responsiblitiesthatarenotmygrama people before she e-mailed me, Blake and my brother. (Or she was wise enough not to take anything on in the first place.) We all have it, whatever it is. It’s AWFUL! No, scratch that, this is one form of crazy my brother was spared. My brother probably e-mailed her with “whatever you need, just tell me, I’ll be there” and like, wanting to be in the trenches and I guess I said that too, sort of, but my response may have included a colon, lowercase o and right parenthesis in succession. I also know for a fact that I am mentally incapable of going to palliative care and I don’t think anyone in the world would hold that against me. Or anyone who remotely mattered, anyway.

I got that far in my thoughts this morning before I had to stop. I thought about taking all my shit outside and working on my garden painting, y’know, IN my ditchweed butterfly wildflower keep off the fucking lawn garden as planned, or as I had planned all morning until I got that e-mail, but suddenly the rain expected at 1pm just had me making idle chatter with a friend who wanted to talk about weed (obviously) while I watched this awesomely shitty Lifetime series that is now on Netflix called Witches of East End and I had just finished the series 1 finale, knowing full well that season 2 was not on Netflix, and may not even exist so I had to come online to know, did it get cancelled? Because it was just SO awesomely shitty that I couldn’t imagine/really hoped there would be a season 2. I got as far as “set to premiere on July 6, 2014” on the Wikipedia page, stopped reading because I literally want to know nothing, and flipped to Facebook because okay, TV is over, now what?

oh. hi there “Death Becomes Her: A Century of Mourning Attire“.

welcome, sheer fucking panic because I didn’t even think of clothes.

And then I came here because I couldn’t even get past the first paragraph of the article before having my worst panic attack in recent history.

I am good for one day of public viewing, unless it’s okay to wear the same thing multiple days in a row or it’s okay to wear white/off-white. (Is it?)
Madison will need clothes. As long as it doesn’t rain, we can work around her Docs.
Wes will need clothes from the ground up.
Blake would prefer no clothes, but has a few suits to choose mix/match/dowhateverboysdo from.
He will need shoes, an expense he’s needed for a while that I keep telling him to get that now he can’t put off. Although my grama might, if overhearing my inner debate as to whether or not he can get away with his orthopedic sandals, say, “oh! I don’t need it, I don’t need it”, because that is absolutely the very thing , when last I saw her, she would say. Ball’s in his court on that one. I’m wearing Docs.

Just texted my brother to make sure he has a suit. He’s a grown man, I probably don’t have to ask him this. Too late. Can’t take it back.

John & Chris are good.

That is all my people.

Everyone else can find their own canoe.

April 6, 2014

Rhymes With Orange

Can you believe that 20 years ago yesterday, Kurt Cobain killed himself? It won’t be until 2 days from now that the police would have found his body. I was 15. I’m listening to Nevermind very loudly this morning, the neighbours be damned, because Blake and the kids are at swimming so there’s nobody in the house to care. In Utero is actually my favourite Nirvana album but I’ve already been listening to the Nirvana tribute Milkin’ It (google! it’s amazing!) in the last little while, which is all of In Utero plus a few other b-sides so I’m a little In Utero‘d out.

So yesterday was potentially lifechanging. My whole life I thought I hated like, 99% of poetry. Basically if it wasn’t a haiku, I wasn’t interested and even those got tiresome eventually because they all blur together after a while. Until yesterday, with the exception of one poem I never even read, I just heard about, every poem I can think of ever hearing would fall under the “foofy” category. Or it was a greeting card. Or it was someone I know’s poetry and I had to be supportive but it was secretly really not any good. Or at least I didn’t think so.

See, something most people don’t seem to understand about me is that I basically have a grade 8 education. My grade 9 year – 20 years ago – was so messed up due to suicide attempts, crazy family drama that is more or less ancient history and 3 different schools, that I only (barely) earned 4 grade 9 credits (science, math, history, english). I got that math credit with a 51%. I think they passed me because they felt sorry for me. Then I got kicked out by November of grade 10 so any classes I had been taking, I never completed. I tried going back in grade 11 but I got kicked out again. In between, I did correspondence education through the government (I wonder if they still do that?) and I remember completing grade 9 art, grade 10 basic math and parenting. Correspondence was the slowest way ever to gain a credit, my god. I went to college as a “mature student”. All I really had to do was write an essay about how awesome at advertising I’d be and send a small portfolio of specs and then *boom* I was in ad school. But ad school’s not like “college” like…by the American definition.  Ad school was not University. Ad school was a 3 year program with only room for 1 or 2 electives per semester and I didn’t finish that either. The only electives I remember taking were a stress management class (holy bird class!) and a class on myths, but I know there had to be 1 or 2 others.

My point, and I have one I swear, is that poetry is not something I’ve ever really been exposed to. I was never taught poetry. To this day I’ve never read a poem by Shakespeare because reading Romeo and Juliet in grade 9 was torture enough. Anything not in plain english, I just get annoyed with. I have no time for foofy and “all poems are foofy”, said I, therefore I have actively avoided poetry like the plague for most of my life.

Until yesterday. Yesterday my brain split wide open and from within the seed of a spectacular flower begins to grow…yesterday I met Allen Ginsberg.

I have been so fucking wrecked since just before Christmas. Everything’s been grey, lumpy mush and I’m honestly a little surprised I made it out of this winter alive. I’m not sure it was totally the winter though, I think that was just the catalyst. Anyway, as I’ve been writing about, nothing had any meaning for me and the things I previously enjoyed doing, I just stopped enjoying and every day was (is?) just a series of wasted hours and minutes, staring at the internet, counting down the time between getting off of work in the morning and going to bed at night.

Blake keeps saying I’ve changed or that I’m changing and he’s suggested that I try changing willingly because it’ll be easier that way, and we’ve both decided that staying open to everything right now is probably the best way to go about things.

Enter Kill Your Darlings. We watched this Friday night and it’s the story of Lucien Carr murdering his ex-lover and the time surrounding that, meaning that the movie was basically about Ginsberg with a little William S. Burroughs. Harry Potter plays Ginsberg and I thought he did a really good job. I liked the Ginsberg in On the Road better, but that’s being nit-picky. At the end of the movie there’s an epilogue and it said that Allen Ginsberg published his first book, Howl and Other Poems, with a dedication to Lucien who in turn requested his name be taken out of future editions. I thought that was interesting. I thought the movie was just kinda “meh”, but it did get my brainmeats jiggling and by yesterday morning I was convinced that Allen Ginsberg was my salvation and I think I may be right.

First we went to the library to get a copy of Howl because I am poor as fuck and if I don’t have to buy something I’m not sure I’ll like, I’d prefer not to. The library did not have a copy. THE LIBRARY. DID NOT. HAVE A COPY. This shocked me, but it’s Elmvale so I’m not sure why. Next the plan was hatched to drive to Chapters in Barrie and buy a copy because I checked online and there was a pocket edition that was only $10. So that’s what we did. I also picked up a Charles Bukowski poetry book that I’d tell you the name of if it wasn’t all the way across the room and completely unimportant at this very moment. I didn’t even know he was a poet and I know absolutely nothing about him. I just know that I see a lot of quotes by him, often quoted by famous people I like, and I usually like them so I figured I’d give him a shot too. It took us at least 20 minutes to even find the “arts and letters” section of the store which comprised their entire poetry catalogue and was only one small, waist-high shelf unit. That shocked me too. They had a million copies of Dante’s Inferno and Carroll’s Jabberwocky. I’ve never read either but probably wouldn’t because long boring poems are long.

After Chapters, we went to a breakfast place called Cora’s that was actually pretty awesome and I wish we could go back today but like I said, I’m broke, and during breakfast, Blake told me stuff about poetry. He has an English degree but specialized or whatever in 18th century sumpin sumpin so while he’s read a lot of poetry, he hasn’t read a lot of contemporary poetry which is all I’m interested in because old timey poetry is foofy and boring unless someone proves otherwise with zero cost to myself.

When we got home from breakfast, we talked about poetry some more and I read the title poem in Howl, which was the first one. I cried when I realized that poetry is like art art, that it’s as wide open as that, both because I was inspired and because I was scared by the idea of infinity. The lens by which I view the world cracked and went from slighty fuzzy big picture to macro kaleidoscopic, like a switch had been flipped and the lights came on behind my eyes and it’s GOOD but I am so so scared that it’ll just be a fleeting thing so I’m going to spend my Amazon gift certificate on more Ginsberg and ask you guys, if you know anything about non-foofy contemporary poetry, what else I should add to my wishlist or find at the library. I think my only real criteria is no eroticaZzzzzzzZZZzzzzzZZzzzz. Or just tell me what you know about poetry! Thanks!

Blake is home so I’m going to go participate in the day.

January 31, 2014

Don’t Be a Fool! Stay in School!

This fake stay in school PSA is the goddamn funniest thing I’ve seen all week and that’s saying a LOT because there were two episodes of Getting Doug With High this week and one of them was an hour and a half long! Woo! The ad is probably not safe for most work places but not due to sex…it’s an ad that could be played before a movie but probably not on TV, let’s put it that way.

When I was in grade 9, my friend Shelley and I were selected to attend a stay in school seminar in Toronto which was hosted by Erica Ehm, a Much Music (Canadian MTV before we had Canadian MTV) personality I’d never heard of because I lived out in the boonies and didn’t have cable. I got singled out to be part of the seminar partly because they looked at my file and saw that Children’s Aid had been involved, but also BECAUSE I was good friends with Shelley who was constantly in trouble and sometimes she used me as an alibi. She and I also skipped class sometimes.

Anyway, they put us on a bus from Port Perry to Toronto which is like, um, I dunno, an hour & a half away and they dropped us off at this big, grey building, gave us name tags and welcome bags and told us to come into the main auditorium and sit down to wait for Erica Ehm whom I’d still never laid eyes on, but Shelley was excited about it because she grew up with cable.

Well. Erica Ehm comes onto the stage and starts talking about staying in school and how if she didn’t buckle down and get an education, she wouldn’t be the successful, cool adult she is now. The way she said it all though was like…well, we might as well have been hearing it from our own guidance counsellors, like I don’t even know if Erica wrote the presentation herself but it was awful and that was at 9am. Her presentation was over in half an hour and this thing was to go until 2pm with more presenters planned, like I know there was a cop there to talk to us about staying on the straight and narrow.

We were both like, “oh god kill us now” because we had no choice but to sit in this seminar with 200-300 other kids from other schools and be bored to tears. That’s when these three guys come up to Shelley and they start talking about “getting out of here”. The guys were from our school, grade 10, all long hair and leather jackets with plaid flannel shirts on them in some fashion, whether worn buttoned down or around the waist, they each had one.

Shelley asked me if I wanted to go on an adventure with the guys. I reluctantly said “yes” because we were in Toronto and anything could happen but it was better than being stuck in that room being told the same shit over and over again all day, especially alone if she ditched me for these guys.

All we did was literally walked right out the front doors of the auditorium, down the stairs and onto the street and not a single adult even looked at us. At a stay in school event!

The full events of the day are lost to time so I can’t give you a play-by-play, but on our way downtown, we played this game where we’d sneak into tall office buildings and see how far up we could get before they threw us out, with the goal being the roof. It was actually pretty shocking how many roofs we got onto, but this was a pre-9/11 world and security just wasn’t what it is now. No one threatened to call the cops or detain us or anything like that, they just escorted us out. And since we were assholes, the game then became to try and get back into those buildings on our way back to the auditorium from downtown, where we had stopped at The Condom Shack and I’d bought a french tickler condom, glow in the dark condoms and a few flavoured ones. I wasn’t even sexually active, I just thought they were funny.

When we got back to the auditorium, the seminar was just ending so we sat in the back like we’d been there the whole time and then at the end, we grabbed our free lunch, got on our bus with everyone else and went home.

THE END.

November 18, 2013

There’s a Hippo in My Tub

My shrink appointment for today got cancelled so I here I am. I got to sleep in and I now have the whole day to do whatever, which I hadn’t really planned on. I didn’t know what to talk to her about anyway. I mean I should probably tell her the stuff I’m about to write here, or at least some of it but I always forget or it doesn’t seem like a big deal when I get there and it probably isn’t now that I’m thinking more about it. Basically, it boils down to this: my inner child? Pretty manic and emotional lately. But I think they’re normal responses to what stimulated them.

Last week, as you all know, I posted those pictures of our family to Facebook and my brother said he had them too, along with many more, especially ones from “the cottage”. My mom replied, “what cottage?” because in her world “the cottage” is John’s cottage where we all go in the summer and hang out now, but in mine and Chad’s childhoods, “the cottage” meant something entirely different. We meant our step/dad’s family’s cottage which I believe was in Madoc, Ontario. Or at least that’s where we stopped at the IGA and the sporting goods store to stock up on water and supplies before going to the cottage. Madoc was “going into town”, anyway.

The cottage itself was a mouse infested, two-room, no running water, plywood shack half on land and half on stilts, right on the shore of the Black River near the Hastings Rapids. It had the world’s scariest outhouse but the roof didn’t leak and it had electricity and a woodstove in the room facing the river. In the room facing the woods, there were cots on one side of the room and various fishing rods, tackle, nets, floatation devices, life jackets etc. on the other. In the room with the woodstove, there was also a couple of “easy chair” type chairs, a table and chairs that were actually pretty cool because the chairs were aluminum benches on either side of the aluminum table. They were blue and chrome. I could have totally made that up but as I visualize the room, that’s what I remember and I know that memory can be a tricky thing. All of those things were facing the river, which you could see out two very big windows, or at least big to a kid, and to the right there was a counter with kitchen stuff on it and a stove, but the oven didn’t work. For toast, there was this super old metal toaster that had a fabric cord and two sides that opened with heating coils in the middle/on one side of each side of the appliance. So you would put your two slices of bread in, and then you would have to wait and keep checking by opening it to see if the one side was toasted well/burnt/whatnot, then when that side was done, you would flip the bread and toast the other side in the same fashion. It was REALLY annoying, but we REALLY like breakfast so it got used a lot.

Since there was no running water, dishes were done in a big plastic tub on the floor.

When we would go up there, we would have to stop in at our step/grampa’s farm in Marmora to get the motor for the boat and I got to see all of the animals (well, most of the time) and the animals our step/Uncle Joe had stuffed recently because he was a taxidermist by trade and pretty good at it. I know it’s trendy to like taxidermy right now, especially chimera taxidermy, but it’s something I’ve been able to appreciate since I was really little because when I was little, our other step/Uncle Rusty, who was some sort of biologist, would show us the stuffed animals and the preserved skeletons and tell us all about the animal. It was almost like going to the zoo.

On our step/grampa’s farm, there were two houses and Uncle Joe lived in the smaller one of them with his wife. Rusty had a room in the big house but would soon flee the country (more like f lee the family) and not be really heard from again until a few years ago. But that’s a whole other thing.

Once we had the motor for the boat, which was at the cottage itself, and threw it in the trunk, we would be out of civilization usually for a week or for however long our step/dad could listen to my brother and I fighting and pack us up and drive us home without uttering a single word (that really happened once). We would go in the boat to this special bend in the river where there was a “shore” of solid but smooth rock on a slope down to the river and grass and the woods behind/above that. Within the area of all this rock, there was a shallow area of the river where you would actually do your swimming and then there was the rapids, which, when we got older, we would go down for fun, either just on our own (banging and scraping our bodies on rocks all the way) or with floaties or on a raft. And also within the area of this rock, we would fish and catch frogs for bait. (I’ll spare you the details on how you use a live frog as bait…it’s actually kind of horrible and I don’t know if I could do it today. Maybe I could. I literally haven’t been fishing since I was 18.)

Long story short, it was pretty awesome and something I had completely forgotten about and last week, my brother sent me 20 photos via text message (pics of pics taken with his phone so I’m just gonna post the one I cleaned up) and as they came in, one by one, I would look at it because they were all of me, and I would remember and I bawled for like, an hour, because my childhood is something I’ve mostly buried. I purposely, mostly, have killed the so-called “inner child” because my childhood was pretty horrible as most of you know. Suddenly being faced with pictures, proof, that “happy” was a part of my childhood sometimes or at some point, was something I wasn’t prepared for. The fact that Ken had saved these pictures and had allowed them to remain in his house when we didn’t part on good terms about 10 years ago was something I wasn’t prepared for either. The fact that my brother and Ken, who have been all but homeless and have been moving around the last few years, found these pictures, of ME!, to be of value, to be important enough to lug around from place to place was something I was not prepared for.

Here’s one of the pics, dunno how old I was, maybe 6 or 7:

So that was last week and then within the last 24 hours, this has happened:

Yesterday we went to London (Ontario) to have lunch with Blake’s mom and Charlie and on the way there, I saw this neat milk truck so I posted it on facebook:

Then friends started talking about how it’s good milk etc. and I mentioned this time I went to Charity J’s house for her birthday party in like, grade 5 or 6, and they had dairy cows. During dinner, they served milk pretty much straight from the cow (and by “pretty much”, I mean it had been refrigerated) and it was the best tasting milk I’ve ever had in my whole entire life. Well, when I posted that, I tagged Charity so she posted about that memory and I just thought of how cool it was that I’m still friends with people with whom I share *good* childhood memories.

So that was yesterday/last night and then this morning I woke up to a message on Facebook from Tina L., who I became really good friends with in grade 9 but then I moved so we lost touch. I went to her house that year for her birthday too and her mom had made Mississippi Mud. Oh lawd. Again, probably one of the best things I’ve ever tasted and that whole afternoon/evening is a really good childhood memory for me. A long time ago, when Tina and I became friends on Facebook, I told her of this memory, which she of course shared as well, and asked her for her mom’s Mississippi Mud recipe because her mom had given it to me at the time but I never made it and it got lost over the last couple of decades. Of course, Tina’s message this morning was her mom and her mom’s mom’s recipe for Mississippi Mud and it is as precious to me as the Hope Diamond, which I basically told her.

And then I cried some more and now I’m writing this.

Oh and I gave Blake the recipe and told him that we’re making it for my birthday (if I can last that long…).

So I guess that’s all I really have to say. It’s just weird that these things all happened so close together. My Aunt Heather always said “things come in threes” so there ya have it. Maybe my supposed inner child is waking up.

Now I think I’m gonna go work on my Secret Satan present because I’m falling behind. Chop chop!

October 30, 2013

Les choses que nous apprenons…

yo yo, quoi de neuf?

Blake, as a new Canadian (did I mention he took his citizenship test and he passed and he was sworn in and can vote and everything now? well, that happened), has decided to take a French class. It started in September and goes until December so it seems like they’re going to cover a lot. He has flash cards and has to do tests and shit. Honestly he’s doing really well. I haven’t heard him speak much of it, I think he’s still unsure of his accent, but he’s showed me his tests and how they do it – I think – is that the teacher gives them a piece of paper with maybe 12 English phrases on it and they’re all numbered. Then the teacher says the first phrase en francais and the students are supposed to write down what they hear. I have no idea how they’re learning things like “est-ce que” (“is that”), which sounds like “eska” (more or less). I would never hear those two syllables and think “oh, that must be three words”. It was on Blake’s test a few times so they must be learning spelling and grammar as well, I just thought Blake told me the whole class is oral/aural. Maybe there’s more to it than that. I know there’s homework involved.

As a Canadian native, I started taking French in school in kindergarten and took it up until grade 9. French is written on everything here, so I know the words for a lot of things but it’s been so long since I used or heard it that I would probably be useless in Quebec and I know I can’t watch TV in French…I’m pretty sure by December, after one class, Blake will be more fluent than I am. C’est la vie!

So this means that on Wednesdays, the kids and I are on our own for dinner and I only see Blake in the morning while I’m working because he doesn’t get home until after I go to bed.

Oh look. Here comes Madison, bugging me for Halloween costume ideas at the last minute…as long as she doesn’t go as a scumbag teenager in normal clothes begging for candy, I *don’t care what she goes as. Also she’s had months to figure this out and it’s the night before, I’m scanning my brain for fucks to give…scanning….scanning…none found!

Awww she suckered me into helping her be Pinkie Pie from My Little Pony. Damn me for having a ridiculous amount of pink clothing and a hoodie with ears that also happens to be pink! Wes, in case you were wondering, is being a werewolf. We went straight off the rack for his costume and he’s wearing a mask so unless he really wants me to I’m not going to take pics. I may have better luck with Madison.

This last week has been the pits, as far as first world problems, because we’re using shoddy wireless internet using the router built into the modem, so that’s issue #1. Issue #2 is that our ISP something something is having problems something something resolving DNS something something, which in layman’s terms means it takes me approximately 20 tries to load a webpage or upload anything because the internet won’t connect to the host. It’s like, “Connecting….” and then it says, “resolving host…” and then Chrome or whatever browser takes a shit and asks if I want to reload. Repeat literally 20 times or until you give up and try looking at it on your phone.

This DNS issue or whatever it is (Blake’s been on the phone with tech support a million times and they told us a couple of days ago to wait 72 hours to see if it got any better) really fucking sucks because I effectively can’t do part of my job because it involves a form to send e-mails to people and there’s an iFrame or something that tells me when the e-mail’s gone through. With this issue, that iFrame won’t load and tell me either way if the e-mail went through so if I click to send the e-mail again, did I really just send it again or did I now just send two? Oh. iFrame didn’t load again. What now? Possibly send three? There is a work-around I’ve found, but it takes something that already took a long time take ten times longer. What also sucks is that the site I do support for is super bandwidth intensive and I have to run it while I’m working. That’s my job. I can run it mostly okay during my early mornings when no one else is online but when we tried using the internet normally during my shift on Saturday, doing my job was just impossible so everyone was pretty much device-bound while I was the only one using the internet at all. And I was *still* having trouble. It sucked. It does suck.

 There’s also an itty bitty conspiracy theorist in me that thinks our cable company is messing with us because we have unlimited bandwidth now, just this month, and have been pretty liberal with it. But that’s probably crazy…right?

Blake and my brother just taught me how to use the bit torrents to download media and I barely even had a chance to try it out before the internet went down and then we were rendered mostly impotent. I was cut down in my youth. What kind of animals would do this to me?

Anyway, since Blake had French class today after work and didn’t come home in between and he works in the city tomorrow, the earliest he can try the troubleshooting process with tech support again is tomorrow night after taking Wes out to get candy. Like I said, my mornings are okay except for that one thing I can’t/is difficult to do, but on my Saturdays, that part of the job is pretty unavoidable so hopefully they fix our internet before then. I also have my work meeting on Friday which is through Skype so hopefully that’s not a nightmare.

So yeah, tonight we’re on our own. Madison and I each have a frozen pizza that we could eat, but Wes ate his last week so his options are grilled cheese with either Kraft Dinner or soup or neither or any one of those things alone or in conjunction with each other. Honestly, I’ve felt so barftastic today that I’m not sure I’ll eat at all, especially pizza. So we’ll see. I do have like, $50 worth of pharmaceuticals to take right now though and they should be taken with food so…yeah. We’ll see.

And with that, I think I’m off to take my pills, watch Weeds and go to bed.

PS. I mostly liked the new Carrie movie. Finally, some justice for Tommy Ross! Madison HATED the movie and says the original is her favourite movie right now. I expected to have the same reaction because Carrie (1976) is in my top 5 favourite movies and I hate two things: remakes and sequels. But nope, I thought it was actually pretty good. Nothing could ever live up to the piece of art that is the Brian De Palma film, but this new one is way better than any of the other Carrie-related efforts I’ve seen over the years. By miles.

And NOW I’m off to do that shit I said I was going to do 10 minutes ago…

(*mostly.)

August 2, 2013

Hey yo kids! Wassup?

Blake just called me to say that my stuff is all set up at the township office. He sent me a pic:

Click here for a bigger pic.

I sent Blake with I think 50 cards so hopefully that’s enough. I don’t know how many people work there or how many people pass through there who might see the display.

Anyway…

Here’s me today:

Okay I tried. I tried to read Molly Crabapple’s really long and thorough article on Gitmo and I just can’t do it. When they start talking graphically about forced feedings I just can’t deal because I know what that feels like and it hurts and it’s gross and it’s just awful. Reading about it reminds me of my feeding tubes. And then that reminds me of the giant needle they shoved into my back and into my lungs to drain fluid that had built up there, likely caused by the feeding tubes I’ve since read. It gives me the fucking willies. Like I can’t even believe I went through all that and I’m still alive. Blows my mind. I feel so far removed from it now but when I read stuff like that, it’s like it’s happening again and I can’t deal with it.

So let’s change the subject…listening to this.

When I was 16? Lollapalooza happened in Barrie at Molson Park (now closed) and Hole was playing so my boyfriend at the time got us tickets and since I was also nomad at the time with no parents to say no, we went. It was no big deal, we just got in his dad’s car (which was unreliable) and drove up to Barrie, parked, stood in a really long line to get into the park, saw some bands and then on our way out of the park, there were these two stoner kids hitchhiking North. We were going South to go home. Dipshit says, “Hey, let’s pick them up!” and so we did and they said they lived in Huntsville. Well Huntsville is like, I dunno an hour and a half away? North? And my boyfriend decided that he was going to drive them to Huntsville “just to be a nice guy” and because the guys said they’d give us gas money when they got to their house.

Do you see where this is going?

So we get to their house in Huntsville and we’re waiting in their driveway for them to come out and give us gas money and it just didn’t happen. They never came back to the car to even say, “hey thanks for the ride but we have no money”, nothing. Dipshit gets mad and wants to pound on their door. It’s CLEARLY their parents’ house so I convince him not to do that because while they did a shitty thing to us, it’s not right to get their parents involved. Dipshit was a big, violent guy so this took a lot of convincing. It was like, 3am and we decided that since we were in town, we should go to my dad’s house and see if he’s home. Remember I barely know the guy.

We get in the car and after about 45 minutes of driving down the wrong dirt roads, we finally found it and we sat in the driveway of his house thinking, “now what?” His phone book had just been delivered so I ripped out an unimportant page and wrote a note –  I think – with lipstick just saying “hi”. I stuck it between his front doors and went back to the car.

That’s when Dipshit tells me that we don’t have enough gas to get home. We’re 2.5 hours from home and we have NO money and I was not waking up my dad, who I barely knew, and ask him for gas money so Dipshit thought of a better way.

That fucker had me begging for change starting at the Tim Hortons in Huntsville and every coffee shop between there and home. I would get maybe $3 at each place and we would stop at each gas station in between coffee shops to buy $3 worth of gas. It was awful. I was so mad.

We rolled into his dad’s driveway at 5:30am, which was when his dad leaves for work, and we left him with enough gas to get to work but that’s it because that’s all we had and at a certain point I stopped begging for change in coffee shops because we had enough gas to get home, but Dipshit wanted me to keep doing it all the way home so he’d have enough money to buy smokes when we woke up that afternoon. I thought that was a bullshit reason to beg for change so I went on strike and we didn’t really speak the rest of the way home. I was tired and pissy and he was being a fuckstick.

Listening to this.

Since last Friday I was trying 4 new drugs to help my constant nausea/barfing/pancreas pain and it really helped. The whole time I was taking them, I didn’t take a single Zofran or Gravol and I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t throw up. I actually ate less and better than I usually do, which is uncharacteristic of the drugs. I also didn’t take a single Ibuprofen or Tylenol 1, except when I was taking one of the drugs because it gave me a headache. This despite the fact that I was on my period and have a sprained foot. Pain relief is also one of the characteristics of the drug. The only problem with these drugs (I narrowed it down to 1 that works best) is that they’re expensive. They also have side effects and I wanted to make sure that I could function as a cognizant human being, especially when they may not play well with my psych meds. (I think I did okay.)  I wouldn’t be able to drive after taking them. Not that that’s a huge problem, but something to be mindful of. There are a few other side effects and I don’t know if they’ll be problematic. Now that I have it narrowed down to 1, I’m going to have to be on the drug longer to know the effects for sure.

So that’s good news, I suppose.

I’m very curious to see if I keep taking this drug if my pancreas will chill the fuck out and quit hurting for no goddamn reason. Then I wouldn’t have to be on hydromorph and sleepy all the time.

I dunno, we’ll see.

Just got an e-mail from my mom. She has to cut a watermelon. I suggested this method. Asked her if my brother was LIVING living with her now. We’ll see what she says.

Uruguay just legalized pot and is the first country to do so. Cool beans. Support farmers, not thugs!

So my foot is a LOT better. I can put a bit of weight on it and can hobble around without crutches, just very very slowly. My shoes still won’t fit on my foot because it’s too puffy but I’m hoping that walking around a bit will help move that fluid to somewhere else.

In theory I should be either painting, working on my story for the Fiction Project or writing stuff in my sketchbook for the Sketchbook Project or even just taking pictures and I feel guilty that I’m not. So I think I’m going to go do one of those things to ease my guilt and maybe I’ll write more later and leave you with this…

August 1, 2013

I Laugh Until My Head Comes Off

Listening to this. I found out recently that Dick Dale once said he wrote this song after someone challenged him to write a song using only one string or something like that. I hated Pulp Fiction (I know, I know…what oh what in the world could ever be wrong with me?) but this was a good song on the Tarantino Connection soundtrack type album I used to have and this was on it.

So what I’m thinking about right now is how good my kids’ lives have been up until this point. (Not that there’s anything happening right now, I just mean up to the present.) Their parents are super in love, I think we all do pretty well in the food department, we can afford the pets we have, the entertainment we have, the bills we need to pay in order to live, my medications that aren’t covered by insurance, gas, a car, a home; we worry about money from time to time and we’re constantly worried about money but honestly, I just think that’s the nature of money. Everyone worries about money. I think about the fact that at Madison’s age I was institutionalized for my 2nd suicide attempt and at Madison’s age my mom was my mom. Madison has her problem and issues that are totally valid, but the fact is that most of them my mom and I had on TOP of the other two things. Which I don’t think Madison understands. Madison is a really good kid with a lot of privilege/s. And obviously she understands that it’s in her best interest to maintain said privileges that she gets and that being a brat, or inattentive to her household duties (which I don’t think we’re that strict about except the kitchen because dirty kitchens are gross and we all partake in cleaning that daily), means privileges get taken away. Like cell phones. iPods. Facebook. Video games. The internet. Etc.

When I was her age and institutionalized, mostly the whole time I was there I was scared because this to me was “the most trouble you could possibly be in at this time”. And that feeling sucks. It scares me to this day to the point where I avoid certain specific scenarios to ensure I’m never in the most shit I could possibly be in. Being…examined is the 2nd worse feeling in the world. They made me do “art therapy” where this big red-headed guy named ART, I shit thee not, handed me a pad of paper and a pack of pencil crayons and asked me about my life. And then he’d say, “can you draw that for me please?” So I made shit up. I basically described the habits, or so-called habits of a 15 year old moody goth (even though I didn’t “look” anything or listen to goth music). I told them I liked to hang out in the graveyard by my house, which was just up the hill and they thought that was the strangest behaviour I had upon my release. “Be careful in the graveyard,” said the head psych lady whose name I forget but she had an accent as she hugged me goodbye. Well she said one other thing but I’m not going to say what that was publicly.

Listening to this.

So I also had this funny idea, because I’ve been thinking about family a lot in the last little while, and who my family is. (One of Madison’s friends has a really large family and we were talking about it & determined that we come from a medium-sized family.) So I have this cousin, named Scott, whom I completely adored my whole childhood. He was literally my favourite person. And then he became my most hated person. And now I’m just “forgive and release”. But anyway, the last I ever inquired about him, he was selling men’s cosmetics, which is apparently a whole thing. And I guess he was pretty good at it, which is no surprise because he was an amazing artist, and now he works for MAC cosmetics, which in the cosmetics world, as I understand it, is a pretty high up place to be. Apparently he has a daughter now but I have no idea how old. Anyway, when my grama dies, he’ll definitely be at the funeral and seeing him will be toooooootally awkward. Being there at all is going to be bad enough but dealing with him is going to make it a thousand times worse. Unless everything’s totally cool. Which is possible. I’m open to the possibility.

I also wonder where she’s going to be buried and what her tombstone is going to say and who her neighbours are going to be. I’ve been afraid to ask that though. Like, it’s totally none of my business. I’m just curious. I don’t know where my grampa is buried and I don’t know where Wes Baker is buried. I know the graveyard my great grama is in but I wouldn’t know how to get there or what it was called.

Anyway, this is just the kind of thing I think about as the day goes by…listening to this.

Actually now I’m listening to a remix of No Rain by Blind Melon done by Pumpkin. If you google it, his soundcloud or whatever that site is should come up. I like it, Blake doesn’t.

Here’s a pic of the bruising on the top of my foot. I have another awful red bruise sort of between my heel and ankle that I couldn’t take a picture of myself.

God my feet are weird.

I just read this xoJane article on 5 things to buy when your son sends a girl or woman an unwanted picture of his dick. Here’s the top comment:

I always told the moms. I tell my mom when my brother is being a misogynistic douche. The true true sadness of my experience is that 100% of the times, the moms are on the side of their precious baby boys Because THEY are misogynistic douches.

 – Natalia Alfonso

And then Sad But True by Metallica came on and hahahaha it was just a random moment that I thought was funny.

If I found out Wes was sending dick pics and thus transmitting child pornography to ANYONE, it wouldn’t be what 5 things I should buy myself, it’s the 1 thing I should take away from him. If I found out my brother did it, honestly, I wouldn’t care because it’s his dick and he can do what he wants with it. If he thought that was a responsible move obviously we need to spend more time together so he gets to understand women. That said, I send Blake boob pics sometimes so there is okay times and place for that and obviously that would be a topic for discussion. Plus, I get naked online ALL THE TIME, or at least I used to, so it’s less of a big deal for me. My body’s out there, for better or for worse. Plus he’s my husband. I don’t think he belongs to some txt pics phone ring with other married guys who show off their wives’ racks or something stupid like that. He honestly probably deletes them. It would not surprise me in the slightest.

I haven’t washed my hair in a week and it’s still looking as intended. I put on a hat if we’re leaving the house though. People can’t handle my crazy.

Madison is visiting a friend in town today so it’s just me and Wes. He’s playing Minecraft or Little Big Planet or watching YouTube videos because that’s just what he does.

Here’s a pic I took of myself before I fucked up my ankle:

And bleached out my hair…
My roots were becoming unbearable.

So that’s why I haven’t washed my hair in a week. I bleached the shit out of it and now I need my hair’s natural oils to coat and protect the hair again. It just also happens to look better when I don’t brush it. Albeit very very crazy.

I have a headache for the first time in a long time. I think it’s from looking at screens more than sleeping, just eyestrain or whatnot. A smart person with the ability to do so would go have a nap but I’ve never claimed to be a smart person.

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps by Cake just came on. I like Cake a LOT and I’m bummed that I’ve never had the chance to see them live. I’m afraid they’re going to stop performing before I’m able to make that happen. From what I’ve read online, they really only play California anymore. Guess I’m going to have to go to them…

Last night Blake and I were driving around the beach and we actually saw this guy in a pickup truck drive right over a couple of medians to get to the McDonald’s drive-thru. I was like, “holy shit is he really doing that?!” So funny. Only at the beach. *shakes head*

OMGZ.

Uhhhhh…. A HARMONICA solo on Baba O’Riley?? I forget what the original instrument is but it’s not a fucking harmonica and I believe it’s something that requires a bow. That was terrible. *scrubs this from her mind*

Here’s a good quality sounding version of the song with the weirdo instrument solo that is absolutely not a harmonica. A HARMONICA. I cannot even.

This is better. Reset.

Sometimes it really sucks being stuck alone with your own thoughts for too long and not being able to talk to anyone over the age of 18 about ANYTHING. Sometimes it really sucks that Madison reads my blog because there is a certain period of my life that I can’t write about without her becoming curious about the people in it and that would be a very bad thing because these people all ended up being scumbags. And I don’t mean scumbags lightly? I mean habitual losers who will fuck over anyone who’s not kin and even that’s questionable and who are always scheming and scamming or feuding with someone. These people are con artists, slimy manipulative alcoholics and grossly mentally ill and unmedicated most of the time and just plain scheezy in every possible way…and I honestly doubt they’ve changed.

But they weren’t always that way.

When I was Madison’s age, I was still just getting to know Phil, my biological father, while juggling my affection and devotion to my step-father Ken, while…let’s just call it “dealing with my family”. When I was 14 or 15 I spent a few weeks in the summer with Phil and Lisa and my cousin Brynne and that’s when they had the carpet store. By the end of it, I was getting so mad that they wouldn’t let me go home. No one would take the time to take me back  because it’s about 2 hours away from where I lived and they were sooooooooo busy. They took me to Dyer Memorial, which I hear is not being taken care of anymore which I think is a real shame, and Lisa attempted to teach me how to drive (we ended up in a ditch, having hit a phone booth on the WRONG side of the road; she was like, “no problem”, put “The Kicker” in 4-wd mode and got us out of the ditch haha). We went 4-wheeling one time which was pretty crazy and we stopped at a stream and fished for a while before heading back. We ate fiddleheads and leaks. But they were super health nuts who were super in shape etc and hard to be around ALL the time, so I wanted to go home I’ll say after 2 or 3 weeks and it was like, this big long drawn out production and inconvenience that I needed to go home.

But the thing was, when I wasn’t there, I was curious about him. I mean, that time I spent with him was the first time I’d ever spent any amount of time on “his turf” and as him being the “parent” EVER and it was weird. And he’s a GOOD person!

Anyway, blah blah blah.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*Dead Sound*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ho-lee-shit. There’s a fucking sinkhole near our house and chaos is ensuing as it widens! How big will it get? Who knows?  I’ve e-mailed Blake about it, who would be on the wrong side of it right now. I sent him a message on AIM, if I don’t get a  reply soon I’ll call him because he said he’d be leaving work at 4:30pm. It’s 4:26pm as I type this. There are other ways to get home without taking the 400, I’m sure, and I’m also sure he knows them, but who knows how they’re re-routing people closer to home.  It’s not like he listens to the radio on his way home or anything so he may have no idea.

Madison is making me pancakes! Hooray for Madison!

*shudder* I just read an article on xoJane about whether or not you like long nails or short nails and I haaaaaaaaaate long nails. omfg do I hate them. I hate real ones, I hate fake ones, I even hate nail polish (on my own fingers, but toes are okay). I am terrified of ripping a nail off and I type for a living, it would drive me insane. The article was so specific that I was like, cringing so I’m not going to link it. Ew.

Ew.

Snowden granted 1-year asylum in Russia, leaves airport” – *WHEW*

Oh hey, I just made a new page on my site for people wanting to advertise here. Check it out. :o)

I called Blake to tell him about the sinkhole so he can come home an alternate route. Where it is, he thought, was the 2nd closest exit to where he was so it was good I called him.

I love this song. It’s pretty much my entire attitude on life.

Here’s me right now:

Blake’s home, peace oot.

July 29, 2013

My Baby Don’t Dance

So on Thursday morning I jumped a fence to get to the field behind our house with Wes to take pictures and I landed on my foot just…wrong….and it swelled up – it’s still swollen – and it really fucking hurt and then it was numb in some places and Blake had to come home from work and take me to the hospital where they took some x-rays, determined nothing was broken, it was “just” sprained, elevate it, ice it, “do whatever it says on the internet but do not wrap it”, he said. So I haven’t had it wrapped since leaving the hospital but it’s still puffy and now it’s starting to bruise. I’m using Madison’s crutches.

On the way home Blake said, “if you could eat anything in the world, what would it be?” and I swear all I remember was saying “poutine” which was just idiotic because apparently poutine from this particular place is out of the question ever again. Diarrhea on crutches really fucking sucks. That was my Thursday night and Friday morning. Friday was barf day where I threw up 4 times – making it to the toilet twice. I was siiiiiick.  I couldn’t keep down water, Gravol OR Zofran. Then Friday evening I had some Canada Dry ginger ale and some other medicine and I felt okay. My foot obviously still hurt but at least the diarrhea and the vomiting finally fucked right off.

Friday evening Blake went to a BBQ with his work friends where the LUCKY BASTARDOS had Stouffville Pizza and Blake told them about The Glotch.

All night I wondered if it would be cool to move back to Stouffville since we’d be approved for a house we could afford there, it’s technically in the running, but I grew up there and when I was in high school, all of us were like…no, living in Stouffville when you were a grown up after spending your childhood there made you a total loser, a failure as a human being to go out and find better…but Stouffville has changed a lot since I grew up there. Apparently Good Eat is gone, which makes me sad. That was the Chinese food like, of Stouffville for a very long time. My family used to be good friends with the man who owned that building. Anyway, it was just an idea I entertained for about a millisecond. I’d rather have family, which is what we get if we move to where my mom lives, than a whole bunch of new friends in Stouffville. I still may write about The Glotch though. ;o)

So that was Friday. Madison and I stayed up late watching Six Feet Under.

Saturday we finished Orange is the New Black. Loved it.  Mr. Healy looks exactly like my friend Robert Peate which I thought was cool at first and then…well, spoilers.

Saturday we watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes for the second time and it really just didn’t impress me. The new one they’re doing will hopefully be better but obviously my expectations are pretty high; I can see they really tried with the last one.

Moving right along…FUCK. It’s 6pm? Awwww I have to take my pills in like, an hour but I’ve had the last 4 days off work (w00t w00t! even though I haven’t been able to do ANYTHING but fuck around on the internet and watch TV – which I’m totally cool with)  and my sleep schedule is super messed up. Blake’s mom’s in town and they’re going out for dinner and Blake said they probably won’t even have dinner until like, 7pm. So not only will I have to go to sleep before they get home, but *I* won’t get to have “dinner” until 4 o’clock tomorrow morning. Good thing I picked yam rolls and beef teriyaki from Furusato which is right near the Mandarin, which is where Grama Brooke, Grampa Charlie and Wes and Blake and Madison are meeting after Madison’s doctor’s appointment. They’ve left me with a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, 1 bottle of water, 3 cans if Diet Coke and my 7pm pills which should, theoretically knock me out by about 9-9:30pm but like I said, my system’s all messed up from being off work for 4 days, so I actually plan to take all the psych meds and the pancreas meds but postpone the sleep meds a little to be gentler to my system and just suffer a  little tomorrow morning to help establish a new program of being for a day before…dun nuh nuh nUH! Wednesday’s work meeting. Who knows what happens at work meetings? Crazy shit, that’s what, you have no idea. It pains me that I’m not allowed to discuss any of it.

My fucking friend just texted me and asked if I could pay him for something in our website’s currency and I’m like, dude that would get me FIRED so damn fast which would be bad for both of us so let’s just stfu now. That is what happens when I talk about sensitive information. So I’ve just decided that mum’s the motherfucking word on all things work related. Talking about diarrhea on crutches? Awesome. Shit that will make me lose friends or get me fired? Nope. I’ve found this leaves me little to actually talk about because I’m honestly not all that interesting.

Anyway, since I have to go to bed early-ish tonight, that peanut butter and jam sandwich is all I get until 4am when ideally I’m getting yam rolls at the very least, teriyaki if I’m lucky and tonight my options are Netflix or internet and I pick internet, again, because internet is just more fun and always will be. :o)

Last night on Reddit, I upvoted some guy because his dog’s balls were spectacular. This is what happens when I start going down internet k-holes, not to be confused by the awesome site of the same name. They usually start on Reddit or YouTube or Wikipedia or even just Google itself and how I get to where I find some of the weird shit I see, I can’t even explain.

So let’s begin this little experiment, shall we? Let’s see how long I can go before the meds kick my ass to bed just rambling and throwing out links.

Last night I was somehow reminded of Chris Sheppard, a Toronto radio/club DJ from the super early 90s, possibly the late 80s? Who made these compilation CDs. This one was always the beginning of my favourite. I didn’t have the CDs, my cousin Chris did and I spent a lot of time with them at that time and this would be what we’d listen to.  So that was pretty cool. That channel has a bunch of Chris Sheppard mixed songs and it says it’s by request but I don’t remember any individual songs so I can’t request anything.

Oh god. haha So LONG story short, I found myself on a certain internet celebrity’s YouTube channel who I hadn’t really been following for a while but this person normally doesn’t talk in their videos but there WAS a newish video where they DID talk! So I watched it and I just about had a conniption fit at what a dork this person is. I shouldn’t laugh because I myself am the hugest dork but it was not what I expected and I just laughed and laughed and I’ll never forget it.

Annnnd now it’s 7pm. Time to take my psych, stomach, pancreatic and pain meds.

I’m listening to this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Today I Learned that brussel sprouts can look edible.\m/

Listening to this, which, don’t laugh, is fucking poetry. Okay you can laugh, but tell me it isn’t awesome in its simplicity. Don’t watch the video, just have it on in another tab. The video is stupid, no contest.

omg so Blake is growing an immigration playoff beard haha what a retard. I love the hell out of that man, he fucking kills me. Meanwhile, speaking of the retarded, here’s me:

Listening to A Tribe Called Red while quoting Metric like the good little Canadian girl I am. This time you probably want to watch the video:

Blake just called; they’re on their way home with my sushis yum yum yum! Blake wants me to start eating healthier and this IS healthier. Healthier than the waffles I had for “breakfast” and the peanut butter and jam sandwich I had for “lunch” – but Blake thinks there’s a grease threshold that I can’t process due to my shitty pancreas and lack of a gallbladder and Furusato was the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t significantly contribute to said “grease threshold”. Anyway, when they get back I’ll take my sleep meds and eat the sushi because yam rolls are best as fresh as possible. *thumbs up*

I guess I’ll end this and post this is various places and have a lovely night with something on Netflix! Peace oot, homes!

July 11, 2013

Asses Kicked, Names Taken

I went to bed last night around 7:00pm, then started work this morning at 4am and I would LOVE to be asleep right now but I have a work meeting at 2pm. Shortly after said meeting, like maybe an hour or two later, I’m going to take my evening pills and go to bed because I have to work again at 2am until 8am tomorrow morning. The good news is that after I’m done work at 8 tomorrow morning, I don’t have to work again until 2pm on Saturday. Granted I have to work 9 hours on Saturday, which sucks, but then I can sleep in on Sunday morning. Then Sunday night (well, technically Monday) I have to work 1am-5am. So I kiiiiinda still get my days off (Sunday and Monday), I’ll just be sleeping through most of them.

Then next week….Tuesday I start work at 5am, then Wed.-Fri. I work 3am-8am but Friday night I have to work 11pm-5am Saturday morning, sleep, then start work at 2pm-11pm and then my last crazy shift is the Sunday night (technically Monday morning) 1am-5am. Then it’s all my normal shift work after that.

I was worried I’d burn out and not be able to handle this but as long as I get creative with my meds and sleep when I’m tired, I should be good. Or at least it has been so far. It’s not even how many more hours I’m working while Belinda’s in Asia, it’s how weird they are that had me worried. For the last year & a half, my schedule has been pretty rigid. Go to bed at 9-9:30pm, get up at 4:30am, start work at 5am, go back to bed at 8am, wake up again around 11am and then paint the rest of the day. The only day that truly sucks in my regular schedule is my 9 hour long Saturdays. But even those I’ve gotten used to because they’re busy and I don’t have time to think about how much they suck haha

So that’s work right now. My meeting’s in an hour and 7 minutes so I better stop blabbing about work and write this damn post.

I’m so tired I’ve pretty much forgotten what this post was supposed to be about.

Yesterday I started a Twitter account for the Springwater Guild of Artists & Artisans (SGAA) where I’ll be tweeting about events we involved in, including the studio tour, so if you have any interest in that, feel free to follow it. I think we have 7 followers at the moment haha Really, the goal of the account is to get the local newspapers and radio stations and local celebrities to tweet or retweet about the event. I also think that during the studio tour, I’m going to live tweet the event using that account. My plan is on the Saturday I’ll get Madison to watch my stuff at the library while Blake and I take an hour or so to go to each stop and tweet pics along the way. I think I’ll also figure out how to incorporate Facebook into that too. I’ve kinda been designated the social media guru so…yeah…

Then this morning I spent a few hours on the SGAA site, on this page specifically that has all of the artists participating in this year’s tour, and coming up with 4 or 5 interview questions for each of them. Then I e-mailed each of them their questions and I asked them to e-mail me back their answers, along with 1-3 pictures, which I’ll then put together as little profile articles to be posted sporadically on the SGAA’s Facebook page. The idea will be for people to see those little articles, which will be based around pictures, and share them, boosting our signal.

I’ve also got the Facebook advertising nailed down so it’s been a really busy morning! I am SO ready for bed!

Anyway, the studio tour isn’t for another 2 months but here’s the Facebook event anyway so if you happen to be in our area, you can “save the date” so to speak. The tour is on September 21st & 22nd from 9am-4:30pm. I won’t actually be IN my studio because my studio is really “the grown up living room”/my office and there’s no wall space to hang any of my stuff so I’ll have my stuff set up at the library in the center of town.

Two & a half weeks from now I have my exhibition for the month of August at the township office. I’ll post more details about that when I know them, for example, WHERE the township office is because I have no Earthly idea. I know it’s between my house and Barrie but that’s all I know. I also know I need to buy a table cloth for the table they’ll be providing to me to use for my setup.

Earlier this week I ordered 400 business cards because I figure between people just asking me for them all the time, the township office exhibition and the studio tour, I very well might need that many and at the moment all I have in my wallet is 4 measly little MOO mini cards (which I did not get any more of, but I did get my cards from MOO because I wanted several different designs).

So long story short, I’m busy and getting shit done.

On Sunday I finished my “Silver Angel” painting, which, if you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you’ve probably seen progress pics of but you may not have seen the final result yet. So voila!

More pics are available on Etsy…
…where you could also BUY HER!

But I’ll show you this one here though too so you can see what makes her so cool:

Her dress is mirrored silver with holographic, 3D stars!
(That were REALLY REALLY hard to photograph.)

When I had her glued onto the canvas (notice that it’s actually NEGATIVE! my backgrounds are always WHITE but this time I went BLACK!), she was pristine. So I started the varnishing process and when I got to her dress and brushed on the varnish, all was well and when I was finished, I put her on top of the washing machine away from shedding-in-clumps dogs. Then I forget what I did, I think we watched TV or I did something online, but when I checked on the painting about an hour later, I FREAKED because the varnish over the holographic paper was CLOUDY, completely ruining the effect. It was so humid on the weekend that it took until Tuesday morning for the varnish to cure and turn clear, which it did THANK GOD, but man I was losing my damn mind until that happened. But in the end it all turned out and now I’m trying to think of things I can do with the other holographic papers I picked up when I was at Michael’s a few weeks ago.

BUT!

Last night I decided on what my next project is going to be. It’s actually something that I’ve had in the back of my head for a while now and I even bought the material to do it like, 2 weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure if it would be my next project or not until a friend on Twitter last night said “heyyyyyyy remember you said you were going to do [X] painting? Whatever happened to that?” and I said I was still thinking about it but that I had all the stuff to do it. And then my friend was like, “well, if you do [X] painting, I will almost absolutely be buying it,” and that spoke to my poor, broke ass so that’s what I’m going to start working on tomorrow after work. It’s NOT a commission because it was something I had planned and had even sketched out already, already had the materials, but it IS a sale, so yay! It’s been way too long since I sold a painting…

Then after that I think my next painting is going to be an 8 x 8 inch piece for the food bank. The studio tour is partially for charity so we’re selling raffle tickets where the proceeds go to the food bank and each artist is donating a piece and what will happen is, you buy say, 10 tickets and you put them in a basket in front of whatever item you want to bid on. You could put all 10 in the basket in front of my painting for better odds of winning it, or you could put 1 ticket in each basket for the chance to win multiple prizes. At least that’s how I understand it’s going to work.

Anyway, the food bank donation raffle stuff will be set up at the library where I’ll be and I think I’m going to see if Madison can run it and have the hours go toward the volunteer hours you need to graduate high school here. I haven’t run that past her yet but it’s a thought I had.

Okay my meeting is in 12 minutes so I better post this, then post it to Camwhores, then pee, then have the meeting.

OH! Speaking of Camwhores, I’m doing a members only show on Friday night at 10pm EST! If you need a free trial to watch the show, e-mail me and I’ll send you an invite! Sunny@SunnyCrittenden.com! This week’s theme is storytelling, so that’s what my show’s going to be all about. Should be interesting.

Peace oot, homies.

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