My parents are visiting, and I hate it.

I hate it when they come. I hate feeling like a horrible person for not being able to just suck it up when they annoy the living crap out of me.

There is a sweet little hotel literally at the end of my block but they don’t like it because it’s not a chain (?!?), so they are staying like waaay on the outskirts of town. I saw a sign for “infill” and explained that is totally what I want to do when I buy a house, and then they went on and on about how they live in the suburbs in the middle of Big Box Land and they LOVE it, which is like the 7th circle of hell for me – we just have totally opposite values which I get and they just sort of don’t.

I tried to suggest to my dad that I not meet them for breakfast tomorrow morning because we were not getting along anyway, and they want to get an early start which means I have to leave to drive there an hour before I ever leave for work on a weekday, and but my dad was like “Oh no, so we’ll see you at 8:30, that’ll be good” because they want to pretend we actually get along I guess?

Ugh. I need to go to bed, I’m probably not even making sense anymore, but I could just cry because I have to go into work tomorrow, and for the next 6 days straight, and they stress me out. I don’t enjoy it. I don’t like it, I don’t think I like them, we have nothing in common, and then I feel even guiltier because I couldn’t just let it roll off my back and they play it like I just randomly “fly off the handle” and they are magnanimous enough to forgive me. Ugh. Awful.

I… fuck… fucking weather… steroids

I have straight up had a migraine since last Wednesday. I should’ve gone into work over the weekend to make up time, but I just hang onto the bed and close my eyes. Today I took a steroid, which is supposed to be the last resort of last resort, and I managed to make it through the day but I still felt like crap, and I took a Gravol because I felt so nauseous it made my heart race for like five hours.

I cried on the bus on the way home, and then I cried on the walk home, and then I cried for like two hours when I got home, and I was working on trying to find another car but I would’ve had to have my dad cosign for me and it’s just not worth the stress…  and it’s not even so much the stress of having to deal with my dad as it is the stress of getting into a loan for years and years. I haven’t managed to keep a job for more than three years since I graduated, and I’m at 2 1/2 years for this job now,  and I feel like I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth, not to mention that my boss told me to be discharged and get back to work or he couldn’t keep my job open for me just two short months ago.  So I pretty much feel like I’m gonna lose my job again in six months, or a year, and then I’ll be on unemployment and looking for a job again, and I’ll manage to scrape through until I kill myself,  but I’m seeing  repossession or desperation in the future.

So I guess I’ll just basically never have a car again, because it’s probably not realistic to want to save enough money to just buy one with cash. I had a car 20 years and four months ago, when I first moved to the city. So now I’m moving backwards. As soon as my lease is up here, I’m going to look for somewhere smaller to move  and my life will just shrink around me until I’m an old maid in a boarding house room with nothing and no one. I actually hope to God that I have the courage to kill myself before it comes to that point.

Fuck insurance and fuck body shops.

I might have already written about this here. I don’t know. Anyway, at the end of last month it was super foggy outside and I was driving in the morning and as I turned to face east the sun was just lighting up my windshield and I couldn’t see where I was going. So I went to pull over, because the road I was on has cars parked on both sides so it’s actually only one lane wide. I rear-ended a jeep, and had what looked to me like a bend in my hood and a broken light lens. People recommended that I look into fixing it myself, but I thought I didn’t have enough money so I would do it through insurance. What the fuck does it matter to me, I thought, if my premiums rise for some future year where I may or may not even be here? So off to the body shop I went, where they quoted over $4000. They wanted to repaint fenders so it would match the hood and all this crap, and the insurance lady said that they had a duty to restore my car to the way it was before the accident so I couldn’t just say “straighten out the hood and I don’t care if it’s a different shade of gray.”

However, they don’t think it’s actually worth restoring my car to the way it was before, because it’s a 2005 with almost 200,000 km on it, so they’re just gonna write me a check and write the car off.

So now I don’t have a car.  Or at least I won’t have a car after tomorrow morning. My dad is going to be pissed, because he gave me this car when they bought a new car for themselves and I’m sure it was some sort of hand me down, like I’m never going to be able to buy myself a decent car so they’ll help me out. Anyway, I texted my sister to *please* call me today, because my parents often call on the weekends and my dad often asks how the car is and how the cat is just for something to say. Not bringing it up until it comes up is one thing, but I’d like to at least have some kind of game plan for what to say.

You can’t get a car, really, for what the insurance company is giving me. It would have to be a pretty old beater, with pretty high mileage, and I’m not really thinking I want to take a test drive with some guy off craigslist or whatever. So I got the name of a car salesman from a friend of mine, and it was clear that I need to get some kind of financing even if I got the most-used of their used cars. So I told the guy that is straight up over the phone, and said that my credit probably wasn’t great and I didn’t want to waste his time. They said they do a preapproval and expected to call me back by the end of Saturday afternoon, which they didn’t, which probably means I can’t get a car unless I go to one of those rip off places that say “have shitty credit? We will finance you!”

It’s so fucking depressing, because my ex tried his best to fuck over the finances when we were married, and then I took it over and I was being so responsible. And then he left me when I was on disability, and then I couldn’t get a new job, and the EI ran out and then I was on welfare, so I was starting from scratch.  Then a couple years later I went on short-term disability for depression, and got let go as soon as I got back, and I ended up finding a job before I got on welfare again, thank goodness, but I decided to go to the nonprofit credit consolidation place because I couldn’t keep up with the minimum payments for everything and I thought once I dug myself out I would be OK.

So now since then I’ve paid off over $10,000, and I’ve been on time every time except for last year when I paid two payments in one month instead of waiting for the first day of the next month and they wouldn’t count that as anything but a skipped payment for the month that I’d paid in advance for. Anyway, I would have enough to pay off the rest with what I’m going to get from insurance, and then all I would have for debt is some student loans. I’d actually have a positive net value if I dropped dead right now.

It doesn’t matter though, because now I don’t have a car and I live in an apartment where basically I just walk in the door and come to bed, and I have all the stuff for a life I’m not gonna live, and I so don’t want to fucking be here.

Crying like a baby.

I was going to quit the outpatient group, and had actually called and spoken to them yesterday about it. Then this morning came, and I couldn’t get out of bed. There didn’t seem any reason to get out of bed.  Why not sleep till noon and then go in to work at 1 o’clock?  I got all sad at the thought of just moving invisibly like that, invisibly going on the bus to my invisible work and then back to the house. So I went to today’s group, and told him that I’d like to try to go next week.

But I went to service Canada to give them a copy of my medical papers, and then I had to phone the EI  line from there and wait on hold and then get a new guy and be put on hold again, and then it turned out that I needed to have the numbers for January and February for how much I worked and how much I made, which I didn’t have, because those were at work. So I went to drive home because I don’t have money to park at work. It’s like $14 a day and they don’t take debit. So went home, caught the train to work,  got teary-eyed on the train and looked out the window and said sternly to myself “don’t fucking cry on the train!  Get a hold of yourself!”

Then I got to work and figured out the fucking EI, which is really hard because their periods don’t correspond with my pay periods and I  cried through the whole thing. I only got like an hour of work done and I feel like I’m at the point where I’ll never make the time up, so fuck it.  And I don’t have as much coming to me for EI as I had hoped, which sucks because there would’ve been no problem being off work and getting benefits for three months if my dick ass boss had allowed it.

I’ll basically have to wait until the next check to see what a normal average pay period paycheck will look like  but I think it’s going to be significantly less than what I was being paid before,  so I don’t really know how that’s going to work out with planning to try to go to Depeche Mode.

I just feel tired and sad.

I can’t afford to be depressed.

This is going to be a quickie, because I’m in the last hour of a day pass and have to get back to the hospital.

I asked my doctor this morning how long it would be before he decided whether this new drug regime was working and he said 3-4 weeks, “but I might not have to be in the hospital that whole time.”

So I went to work to talk to my boss in person, because I was worried I would cry on the phone and that I would make assumptions when I couldn’t see his facial expression. Before this he had been like “Your health comes first!”, and then that turned into “…Any idea of possible return dates to work?” and then today he was like “Another MONTH? Aren’t you feeling any better?” not in a jerk way, but in a way that made it clear that he thought it would be a matter of a few more days at maximum.

So then he said that he wouldn’t give me an answer on how long he could actually hold the job open for me, because he didn’t think that would be helpful, but “the sooner the better” and he wondered if I could start even a few hours a week because I was coordinating all these projects and now they’re kind of hung up because of me.  Then he said that now that he was aware that I might be absent from time to time, that he could get someone else to coordinate from now on (basically a demotion in duties because I’m unreliable.)

I can’t lose this job to depression; it would be the 3rd in a row and I just can’t go through that again. So I’m going to have to tell the psychiatrist tomorrow morning that I have to go back to work and see how much license he’ll allow me.  I’m so stressed.  I wanted to cut myself with something properly sharp for once just to release some of the tension and I cannot find my Exacto knives.  Aaaugh!

Life in a black garbage bag.

I was feeling… agitated tonight.  So I decided to start shredding the shit I wouldn’t want anyone else to find or to have to deal with when I’m gone. Holy shit, how cathartic! I shredded for over an hour, until I’d filled a big black garbage bag, and now I’m tired of listening to the “whirrrr” and feel like I can go to bed and continue tomorrow.

Everything just made me think that I’m not losing a thing, not a fucking thing, if I decide not to stay around.  Here are all my nicely filed receipts, from when I had a real job and did professional development!  Here’s an old lease from when I was still married!

All of it attesting to the hope I had back then, that I thought having more bills than money and more work than fun was just a step along the way — not that I thought “I’ll be happy when,” because I was a hell of a lot happier long long ago than I am now.  It’s just, it’s all records of a life that I’m never going to live. So fuck it! Into the shredder it goes!  Entire folders from the filing cabinet, of shit that eventually I started shredding face down so I wouldn’t have to see what it was.  Now there’s no evidence of that, for me or anyone else.

Adulting is hard, with the groceries.

I’m so tired!! I took a shower today and cooked some food (meat and veg, more than I have done in quite some time) and now I’m in bed, at the ripe hour of 8 pm. I kept buying cartons of eggs because they are fast to cook, but then didn’t get around to cooking them, mostly because I haven’t been cooking anything, so I have a dozen in the fridge with the Dec 25 expiration date mocking me.

I have been adding things to an online grocery cart all day (because going to the store is too hard and deciding on things is overwhelming). I nearly cancelled the order, thinking I can just grab milk when I go in to work, but I am going to leave it.

It is surprisingly hard not to pick things that I realistically won’t cook – I look at the industrial frozen burritos, for example, and think “I could easily make better ones with whole-grain tortillas and refried beans and some of that good salsa,” and then I remember that I haven’t managed to fry an egg in a month. Same with the cream of mushroom soup (for my imaginary casseroles).

I did choose my milk (foundation of cereal, protein shakes, and coffee), one of those salad kits, and a bag of those lathed carrots (they aren’t “baby” but I am not up to peeling the regular ones) so at least I will have a Fresh Vegetable in who knows how long. Go, me.

I could go on quite a rant about nutrition and cooking tips that are total bullshit – it’s super annoying when you know that your body needs good fuel but you are struggling to make it happen. It would be lovely to buy one of those meal kit subscriptions, or get kale smoothies from Jamba Juice, but pouring all my part-time job money into psychologist and massage therapist appointments makes that not practical. I’m doing my best – and it seems like that only amounts to a half-ass job. So be it.

My dad is truly shitty about money.

I started with the title “my dad is a piece of shit”, but that felt just a little harsh. I didn’t get into work today until 10:30, which seems to be the new normal. I went down to the Parkade for 15 minutes over lunch: I’d put a pillow in the backseat so I just crawled in and lay down with my eyes closed. I didn’t want to get out and go back to work, but I did, then avoided the office Christmas party, then the gal whose last day was today said goodbye to me at five and I cried at my desk for an hour before I gave up and went home.

(Yes, my dad is a dick, I’m getting to that.) So by the time I ended up getting home, it was nearly 7 and then I made a supper of two slices of bread and a glass of milk. Then my mom phoned, and she had a question about what router was showing up in their Internet settings, not because their computers or iPad weren’t actually working, but she was scared but they were on an open network and that if she did online banking someone would steal her identity etc. etc.

I really didn’t have the patience for it, And it showed. I basically asked her if the computers are working? And the iPads were working? Then there would be no reason to assume that the router wasn’t connecting automatically just like always.  I have explained how to look for a secure site, and emailed her her bank’s own guarantee against liability, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. That’s because she has a full-blown, hard-core, never treated anxiety disorder.

Anyway, on the phone I barked at her that she didn’t have a tech-support problem, that she had an anxiety disorder problem. She asked why I was so angry, and I said that it was basically because she’s never tried to do anything about it, but people around her have to suffer. Then she said that she had actually talked to my dad about going for therapy, and that he had said no. I know right now why he said no, it’s because he’s a cheap fucking bastard. When they came to visit me a few months ago, he ordered a large Tim Hortons tea and paid a dime for a second cup, so that they could each have a drink you see. So of course he’s going to say that she doesn’t need it, if he’s too cheap to pay a dollar or two for them to each have their own Tim Hortons, he would think it’s highway robbery to pay by the hour for Mom to get treatment.

It’s not like they’re hard up, they have a nice house, motorhome, new cars, a vacation home, etc. etc. and I know he grew up poor, but that excuse just doesn’t fly with me. I really thought she wasn’t willing to go, and that she was worried about what people would think or that’s the counsellor would tell her that she was crazy, or whatever. I honestly didn’t know that she was willing to get help and that my fucking cheap father was preventing her. She’s got crippling anxiety! She can’t pump her own gas because she is scared the car will explode!  I mean I could go through a day with her from breakfast at bedtime and list 1000 ways that she accommodates for or compensates for or acts differently because of anxiety. So she’s supposed to live another 25 years with that because what? That’ll save him a couple grand? Like what a fucking asshole thing to do to somebody. I have been paying for prescriptions and therapy and massage and everything for years and I don’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.  But of course, I have to go to work to support myself, so I need to do whatever it takes to function, and she doesn’t so there’s no economic burden to her having anxiety.

I know it’s like an eye roll phrase to say “triggering” nowadays, but him being cheap really is super triggering to me. When I was 18, after my first year of college, I took a job waitressing in a resort town for the summer. (Have I already put this in my blog? I can’t remember.) Two or three weeks in, my boss, whose wife worked with us full-time, helped himself to a generous handful of my ass while I was on the way to the dishwasher with my arms full of pie plates and coffee cups.

I was too young and uncertain to just confront him head on, but smart enough to know that it was probably going to be an issue, so I called my parents and explained that my boss had felt me up, that it made me really uncomfortable, and that I was going to look for a job somewhere else. If worst came to worst though, I explained, I might need to come home while I looked for a new job as accommodations were provided by the hotel or restaurant you were working at.

So Mr. Cheap, my dad, said (and you’d better believe this is a fucking quote) “Oh, no, dear! I wouldn’t say anything. Don’t say anything! You don’t want to rock the boat!” My mom backed him up, and I hung up with a very clear understanding that it was more important to my parents that I make a living, and not need anything from them, than I feel safe or be unmolested or whatever else you would want to say to describe that situation. it wasn’t like they were saying “Well, maybe he was just joking with a butt grab, but don’t let him grab you any where else!”, either. I don’t even know what kind of money they thought would be lost if I didn’t work. Any money I didn’t make for school I would be taking out in student loans, and there was never any expectation that they would help me that way. So what were we talking about? A summer’s worth of groceries?

I mean, I knew my parents were assholes, but I actually never expected that. I think in the back of my mind I thought that they might tell me to try to talk to him or to see if it was just a one time thing before I quit. I never actually thought that they would say “we understand what’s happening and we don’t care; you keeping your job is what we care about most.” This is assholery, right? I’m not overreacting here?

In a fucked up twist of fate, a few weeks after that I was raped, as a virgin, by a middle-aged man from the United States who had attacked four previous women in Canada. so I had to deal with the police, with that whole thing, on my own, and then go right back to work serving beers to groups of vacationing guys. That was when I discovered the true power of dissociation, and basically got through the rest of the summer by being bulimic, black out drinking, taking up smoking, and waiting out PTSD symptoms.

The really tragic thing is, they never apologized and I’m sure, if I said to them today that something similar happened with a boss of mine and sexual harassment, they would respond the same way.

I mean, I don’t want to be an asshole myself with the guilt trip here, but the last time I saw my psychiatrist I tried to explain how wouldn’t be a big loss and he tried to explain how families never get over it, and they always wonder if they could’ve done anything differently. Well here’s something you could’ve done differently:  value the health and safety of your fucking kid more than a fucking dollar. So if I don’t make it 2017, at least I’ll never be out of work again, and I’ll never need to borrow a fucking dollar from him ever again, so that ought to make him happy!

Plumbing the bowels of hell.

So my toilet plugged up this afternoon, after I’d had a big poop, and I plunged and plunged and nothing happened. So I gathered up the motivation over a couple of hours to go out in the freezing cold and get the “One Second Plumber” from the store.

So I put it into the toilet and pressed the thing to “poot!” a little burst of air and the next thing I knew the water was coming up the sides of the bowl… over the edges of the bowl! Flooding poo water onto the floor! “FUCK! FUCK SAKE!” I yelled, taking the top of the tank off and grabbing at all the little gadgets inside to try to make it stop. That was at 5:30, four hours ago.

My landlord told me how to shut the water off (I should have known that in advance) but wanted me to go to Wal-Mart and buy a snake, and I told him I had no idea how to use a snake, so he drove in from out of town with his wife emailing me about how this wasn’t their problem. He was an hour and a half away so while he was on his way I had to “bail out” some of the poo water into a bucket and panic-clean my Depressed Person House. At least I tend to do badly with clutter but well with cleanliness, so the bathroom and kitchen were clean.

As it turns out he had to snake it like 6 times and use more of the air plumber before it would flush normally. Then I had the pleasure of cleaning the entire thing – toilet, poo-water bucket, plunger, floor – which I approached like I was from the CDC and the poowater was Ebola. Thank God I have nitrile gloves and cleaner and paper towels from Costco.
Now I am exhausted and have this Issue of Whose Job It Is to figure out with the landlords, which sucks. Meanwhile my Last Appointment Ever with my psychologist is tomorrow morning. Already! I guess if nothing else, I will be an honest wreck when I see my psychiatrist, as my appointment with him is right after so I have to go basically straight there.

This whole evening sucked but to be honest I wish I had a movie of the ten seconds when the toilet flooded and I was jumping around swearing because I bet it looked funny as hell. Talk about adrenaline!