Summer is coming

And I don’t know if I can stand another one like last year. Today’s pretty much the first day I’ve been migraine free in about a week and a half. I was flat out on the weekend, and I remember thinking on Sunday that I should get up and do some laundry or something because I didn’t exactly have a headache anymore, but I sure as hell had a headache hangover. I was trying to remember what I did last night, and of course I worked on my taxes all evening. How fucked up that I couldn’t even remember what I did 24 hours ago. Anyway, today I went to work, went to see my psychiatrist and cried talking to him the whole time, and he gave me a new drug to try, I don’t remember the name of it but it’s an antipsychotic that’s also approved as an add on for major depression and adults.

Then I went back to work, and started feeling overwhelmed and having difficulty concentrating. And so I basically was just sitting there looking at the screen for about an hour, and then I had my appointment with the counsellor and I cried really hard at him. I was talking about how I don’t get the point of being all anal about opioid addiction’s, because I don’t give a shit if I might get addicted to opioids in a couple of years, if I’m gonna fucking kill myself right now because I can’t stand the thought of being in pain for more than 15 days in the month.


Before and after “the incident.”

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. He was trying to find out if I’d had any kind of human contact, and somehow it got onto my relationship with Beth and I made a comment in passing that they had really been there for me ever since That Summer.

“What summer?” he asked. I said I was sure that I would’ve told him about this early on, and he started riffling through my file and saying that he didn’t think so. So I explained my creepy boss and my parents’ orders to not rock the boat and not say anything (really not to lose the job no matter what) and that three weeks later there had been a guy who is in his mid 40s and how the RCMP told me he had a record of 4 other women in Canada, even though he was American. Then I said “so I was a virgin… And then I wasn’t.” My psychiatrist exclaimed “You were raped??” Yes, I said, wondering what else I could have possibly meant.

He flipped through my file some more and then said that I had told him I’ve never been sexually abused. I said that I thought sexual abuse and sexual assault were different (that’s why I would have said no to that specific question), and that I’d thought he had known all along. He said that he was abusive and sexual, so it was sexual abuse. I said that I thought sexual abuse was like being molested by somebody who had access to you but but it’s not like I got this definition from the literature or had a really well-thought-out model in my head.

Anyway he acted like it was some kind of big revelation which I guess to him it was, but to me it’s old news. He kept saying stuff like how he was glad I told him, and how that must’ve been a really violent introduction to sexuality, and I said I’ve done a lot of work with my old (retired) counsellor about it, because I didn’t even used to be able to say the word ‘rape.’ I told him straight up that the worst part was that I now know that the only reason that hasn’t happened again is that I haven’t been near a guy who wants to do it. I fought as hard as I could, and got really bruised up for my troubles, but there’s no way that I, in any kind of shape, can counter the upper body strength of a man.

So then he said oh, he gets how I feel vulnerable, and why being alone is such a big deal to me, and he was all outraged that they didn’t make a big court case out of it. Yeah go look up some statistics on the number of cases that go to trial. Or the number of convictions relative to the number of police reports. Or the number of estimated attacks compared to the number of women that actually report it to the police. The numbers are pretty dismal. Anyway, he said that we have to talk more about it and that he was glad I told him (again) and I just sort of felt like it’s not really even something I can connect with here in the present; I dissociated during the attack, and then started drinking, smoking, cutting, and being bulimic for the rest of the summer and then got into drugs the year after that.

It’s as if he thought that I was too fucked up for the history that I had given him, and now he was like oh the pieces all fit together and it all makes sense now. He suggested that I tell the EAP counsellor about it too, and I sort of said that we were basically just focussing on making it from day to day. I don’t know, I’d already been in his office crying for 15 minutes before it came up so it’s hard to tell if I was upset about talking about that specifically or just the whole thing.

I also told him how Depeche Mode were going on tour again in the fall, and how they’re coming to a city much closer than they had on the previous tour (which I had a ticket for and didn’t go because I was laid off because of depression.) or the tour before, where I made a little trip out of it and stayed a few days to explore the city and met up with some fans from the Depeche Mode message board and have been in touch with the one gal ever since. “We are damaged people, drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of” as DM lyrics put it. Instant connection.

Anyway, I don’t have anyone to go see them with which made me just fucking bawl. I assumed I was going to have to go somewhere again and now instead of being happy that they’re close by I am upset. I reminded the psychiatrist how I cried and cried in the hospital about missing Leonard Cohen in concert because I didn’t have anyone to go with, and now he’s dead. The psychiatrist said that it was OK to do things alone, and sometimes he went to the movies alone, but either way it was obviously pretty important to me and I better make it happen. I’ve gone to other concerts alone. I don’t fucking like it. So now I might buy tickets for another city just because I know another Depeche Mode fan there and won’t have to go by myself.

I’ve been crying every day at work at the end of the day and really just feeling like crap. Tonight I had a drink and a piece of hash truffle the minute I got in the door, and I’m sure I can make it to the weekend of the 17th when Depeche Mode’s new album is released. The concert, however, is over 200 days away. and I don’t know. I seriously just don’t know if I’ll be able to hang on that long. It’s always seem to me like before a birthday is an ideal time to die, and once my plans were thwarted in January and I was hospitalized till mid February, it seems reasonable to wait till mid-March. But waiting another seven months is something else.

I’ve been crying every day at the end of work, and sometimes on the bus, and then when I get home, and I just don’t think there’s anything here (in the world) for me. I can’t live seven months for one three hour concert. And then when that’s done I can just wait and work for three or four years for another album or another concert. And that’s the only thing that I can control, is buying albums and going to concerts. I can’t control my migraines, I can’t control losing jobs over migraines or depression. I can’t make other people love me or show up when I need them, and this is like when Beth said that her husband had thought they should come up and spend some time with me. In the moment on the phone I responded with how that would be great anytime, and then I sent them an email saying actually asking them to, explaining that would be really awesome and really helpful because it’s going to suck going back to my apartment alone with all the suicide equipment there. And they didn’t come. There was some reason they couldn’t come the week I asked, and then their son came to visit for a week from another province, and they just sort of haven’t mentioned it again.

I realized that I put up with the creepy boss and serving guys at tables beers literally the day after I’d been raped as a young waitress so that I would never be put in that position again. I never wanted to be put in a position where guys were going to do things to my body without my consent because I couldn’t afford to quit, or I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, or whatever. No, I needed to make sure that I was going to be able to make a living. Never have to call on people like my parents.

I went on a bit of a rant in the psychiatrists office, actually, saying I’d really like to know where the line would’ve been for my parents. If I’m getting felt up over my clothes that’s totally acceptable as long as I’m making my five bucks an hour. Plus tips for being friendly and flirty with the tables of guys with their beers. So what if my boss had felt me up under my clothes, would I be allowed to quit then? Or rubbed up on me with his body? It’s not like my parents said that I should quit  if he did anything worse. They said very clearly not to say anything about it and not to rock the boat. So fuck them, for all time. I got felt up for my $5 an hour and got raped for free.

And now, after going through SO MUCH to put myself through school, I’m underemployed, poor, and had to sell myself out for this job yet again. I just… this isn’t fucking sustainable. I’m going to die by suicide. The question is just when. Things have just gone too far to be redeemed. I can’t go back in time to change anything, and where I am represents trying my best. My very best. And if that’s not good enough to satisfy God or anyone else it’s really too bad. But I don’t see any reason to hope for the future when I don’t expect to perform better than my best in the future


I went to see my counsellor today over lunch and couldn’t even really talk coherently. I told her what was up — that Saturday night I’d felt really really close to hanging myself, so I rolled a blanket up and held on to it for like three hours with both hands because I was scared if I moved it would be to do the deed.

This week I have come home and gone to bed.  Literally straight in the door from work, taken my clothes off and dropped them where I stand and crawled into bed at 5:30 or whatever time I get home, and stay there until the last possible minute I can get out of bed in the morning.  Yesterday I went to work with obviously gross greasy hair and felt like crap all day, and I have vitamins and herbs (like folate) that are supposed to help with the depression that I haven’t taken in weeks because I haven’t had the… energy? Motivation? Willpower? to take the bottles out and pour a few to take to work with me.

Over the weekend I looked up what the deal was with sick leave and disability, and it turns out I get a maximum of 10 days… longer than that and the employer just dismisses you so you can go on EI instead of draining their paycheck. When my job stops my drug benefits do too, so I can only imagine what fun it will be to try and pay for all these meds out of pocket.

Anyway my counsellor thought the best and safest thing really would be to call my shrink and get me into the hospital (she said with calm-down gestures “I know this was a bad experience for you last time, but…”) but there’s no point in that if it gets me canned from my job early and gives me even more of a reason to take my own life.

Then I volunteered that I thought if push comes to shove, it would be much better to kill myself while I actually still have a job, so that there is some assurance my body would be found within a reasonably short time — surely if I didn’t show up they’d call someone after a day or two? I can think of nothing more tragic than ending up like Joyce Vincent, who died alone and whose body wasn’t discovered for three years.  Three years!  That’s heartbreaking!  Of course it would be a much shorter time for me as there isn’t any money for the bills to keep being paid automatically.


Anyway, the outcome is that I see my shrink in a couple of days and said I would be straight with him about where things are at.  Either he can help, somehow with something, or I’ll hang on as long as I can, as employment turns into unemployment, and the desperation drives me to a final decision.

I actually wonder if, as in Taylor Mali’s poem (see this post), people in my life harbor a hope that I’ll just fucking do it and get it over with, a “secret outrageous hope”, instead of straggling on like a drowning person who keeps bobbing back up to the surface at the last possible moment?

And how outrageous, how fucking extraordinary, that people can walk around seeming so blasé to each other. My coworkers noticed I was a little wound up after lunch (post-Visine and powder and Xanax) but attributed it to our bitch boss.  I wonder how they would react if they knew I was daydreaming about death? Staring at my monitor, but really thinking what messages I should leave, and to whom, on a Dead Man’s Switch service? Wondering which door I should hang myself behind?  Then they ask whether we’ve put some shitty work task on the agenda for the next shitty meeting, and I want to laugh at how little I care about these shitty work details.

The thing is that I really love the people that are in my life. I feel lucky to know them and I don’t want to make anyone hurt, or sad, or above all guilty.  I just can’t guarantee I can hold on forever for their sakes.  It’s literally years that it’s been like this and I’m well past the age of teenage angst.

They have legalized euthanasia for depression in Belgium, and I’m sure I’ll see that in my country within my lifetime – probably within a decade. I even looked up how long you have to be in Belgium to be considered a resident (three months) because I think, I hope, somehow if it comes to that and I could be euthanized by a physician instead of committing suicide, that would give people some comfort, some peace about it — that a physician felt this was an appropriate treatment for my suffering instead of thinking that I made some kind of rash or independent decision.  But then again, it’s asking me to go the extra mile for everyone else’s sake and how much more can I be expected to give?

This post is probably all over the place and it’s early but I’m again exhausted, so I’ll close.




Three weeks off?

So today my counsellor went over our upcoming appointments and reminded me that she will be away for the next three weeks, and I was like “Oh, okay”, and wrote down the appointments in my little daytimer thing, and now I’m torn between feeling panicky and lazy.  I know a couple of other people I could make appointments with to tide me over.  But then I’d have to call, and since they’re not in the same neighbourhood I’d have to book at a different time of day because of work, and augggh, this sounds tiring already — am I really going to look up and call someone so I can talk about my little boring minutiae, or am I just going to spend time in bed, looking at the wall?

Yup, I don’t want to play games or read or go out.  I just want to stay under the covers and avoid reality, thankyouverymuch, and I’m feeling pretty pessimistic that talking about anything is going to make me feel any better in the short term at this point.