To-do list

I put “put bra and shirt on” as a Thing I Have Accomplished Today. Yep, I’m reaching. I had bought some baskets of mushrooms because they were the cheapest, which turned out to be a mistake as when I sat down to clean them they had become moldy  from being in the damp plastic. Great.

Too good to pass up.

Honestly, I know I said I would drop this, but it’s comedy gold! The fan who had commented here asserted the writer I criticized wasn’t young and inexperienced because she’d paid someone to print as few as 15 copies of her books. I thought hmmm… let’s give this lady a Google and see if I was wrong.

So this “journal” that she has also been published in (

has this to say:

Candice Louisa Daquin is of Sephardic origin and immigrated to the US. She currently lives in the American Southwest. She is a long time editor, reviewer and writer of poetry, and has published three books. Her forth will be available this year. Daquin is an ardent supporter of equality and immigration reform.

Her FORTH, you say? I guess spell-check didn’t catch that should have been “fourth” and neither did the editors of this, ahem, prestigious literary magazine. It’s an online only journal and that is dated July 7, 2016; a full year ago.


I mean it comes back again to wanting to convince yourself that you, or the person you are a fan of, are already awesome instead of a work in progress needing a great deal of progress indeed…

Kicking yourself in hindsight

Apparently the writer whose work was rejected, after blocking me from her own blog, has sent all her fans here to read all about what a big bully I am (by being pissy and snippy in writing about my interaction with her for my own purposes on my own blog.) Let’s just remember that her fan called me an “arrogant prick” if we’re going to talk bout bullying…

It’s not like I haven’t given this any thought.  My tone degraded, and I apologized for it in a comment on her blog before she blocked me. I AM sorry that she was hurt, especially if as I suspect (and none of her fans have disputed) that she is young and inexperienced.

Here’s the thing though: I am more frustrated with myself than I am with her, or anyone else involved in this, and this is why: I thought even as I started the first, gentle, maybe-you-might-consider email that I was going to be wasting my time. I just don’t think she or her fans are in a space where they can hear “your writing isn’t good” no matter how professionally or kindly it is stated.

So what was my fuckup? I kept going. And I kept going because I thought if I was somehow able to get across to her with my writing that her writing needs work in these structural elements, then she could work on it, get published easily in the future, and it would be a win-win for her and her fans.

That was arrogant and deluded on my part. Her inability to take criticism isn’t based on what I was saying or on what the journal editor said, or on how we said it. She, and her fans, are defensively invested in her identity as a “good writer.” So I’ve hurt her, pissed off her league of fans, and got nowhere in convincing her that the journal editor had a point. And now, I have to let this go.

Edit: proof that her fans are too invested to see the facts: she has self-published books (where you pay a printer the full printing costs so anyone can “self-print” anything.) Nope, that doesn’t have the same street cred as a real publication, to anyone but fans of authors who only have self-published work! Ha!

Vanishing bookmarks.

I just tried to pull up the blog teaching cancer to cry, and it’s gone. It was written by this guy named Ezra Caldwell, who started out as a dance instructor and then switch to building bicycles. He got diagnosed with cancer and kept a blog with his experiences.  He had treatments and surgeries and decided not to pursue treatment when the cancer recurred, so he died two or three years ago.

Even though I’ve read the entire thing, I’d go back periodically just because I enjoyed reading his writing, and enjoyed his descriptions of his foodie meals,  and now it’s gone. I can’t blame his wife for not wanting to go to paying for and maintaining the web domain, and I’m sure I can get it through the Internet way back machine, but it’s just kind of a shock when you go to a familiar bookmark and get that 404.

Got through Thursday

So the payday tomorrow is going to be my lowest pay (all deductions plus no extra work) so I thought it would be good to base a budget on. Bad idea. I added up my bills and rent and came up with the figure of 91 cents left over. Before cat food or groceries or gas. Just bills. Fuck me!

So I started crying, and I’d already gotten teary at the end of the day at work. I managed to shower, which is a Herculean task, and then I feel shitty because it was so hard to do. Now it’s bedtime, thank God.

Where is the dopamine?

It looks like I’m sliding into crying all the time again. Friday at work I started crying because of a work conference I had decided not to go to because I was scared I would get a migraine. I went down to the Parkade, thinking I would cry in the backseat of my car, but I forgot my car keys. By this time I was already crying hard, so I didn’t want to go back upstairs to get them. I called the employee assistance program, thinking that maybe there was an off chance that they would have an opening for a counselling appointment. They didn’t, but the gal who answered the phone thought that I sounded so upset that she patched me through to a social worker who was on crisis duty. He was very nice, and said that he could barely understand me between the echo of the Parkade and how hard I was crying. He recommended that I just give up and go home, and give work another try on Monday.

So Saturday I was OK. I did some laundry, and some dishes, and cleaned the bathroom, and I totally thought to myself that if I didn’t have a migraine on Sunday, I could wash my make up brushes and do a bunch of things that were sort of on my to do list but not really urgent. Of course I had a migraine on Sunday, so that was the end of that.

The migraine extended into yesterday, so I ended up not getting into work until 11 and then leaving at 4:30. That’s totally more like half a day then a day, but if I stay there I would’ve just been physically there but  unproductive. 

So that brings us to today, where I went to the hospital for ketamine. I started crying after the infusion had begun, and I can’t even really point to a specific reason. I just felt desolate, and kept thinking of poems like 

Come to me in my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again. 

For so the night will more than pay the hopeless longing of the day.

And then I got upset about thinking how the day was filled with hopeless longing. I guess about halfway through the infusion I started to feel better, in the sense that you read about ketamine being used for really acute depression, and then manage to have a bit of a nap afterwards. Then I headed to my psychiatrist, where I started crying basically right away and explained to him that it was one thing to not be able to go to a work conference, but that I didn’t even get to wash my make up brushes, boo-hoo hoo. 

So he increased my meds and gave me a prescription. I took the bus to the pharmacy to find out that they had to order one of the drugs in, so then I took an Uber home and had a shower, because by that time I was just feeling red-faced and wrung out. Then I headed into work, not getting there until 2:30 and leaving at 7 because a colossal thunderstorm started and I was worried that I was going to be having trouble driving if I waited much longer. 

So now here we are, I’m heading into the middle of the week and I don’t feel like I have any of my shit together at all. My skin is horrible, with huge fucking zits because I’ve been eating chocolate and cornflakes with sugar and not much else. I had bought some pierogies, and I think the sour cream I bought to go with them is expired. Because apparently boiling water to put perogies in is too much cooking for me to manage. So that’s pretty pathetic. I think that I should buy some bag salads or something, but I don’t feel like fucking bag salads. I feel like cinnamon toast with warm milk, and candy bars, and waffles with syrup, and always comforting high carb things.

Anyway, I’m not really feeling too hopeful at the moment. My brain has all kinds of drugs being thrown on it, and it just devoured them all and then shit kicks my neurotransmitters anyway. I’m still averaging 2/3 of my time with migraines, which is depressing in and of itself. At least I have a counselling appointment for this Friday, only two days away.

Left psychiatrist without a prescription.

I went to my appointment today and explained that whatever I had taken was making me really really tired. He said “hmmmm” and started flipping through my file, asking me what meds I have been on in the past, before I came to see him, which I really don’t remember at all. Then I said why not just leave well enough alone, because I thought things couldn’t get any worse but when I couldn’t make it through a workday, that was actually worse. And that the world only cares about whether I go to work and pay my rent, the world doesn’t care how I feel about it.

So he said maybe we would leave it for a week, because I just tried two medications that didn’t go well for me, and that he would see me next week. I cried on the bus on the way to the appointment, and then pulled myself together to sit in the waiting room, and although I started crying when I was with him I still kept it mostly together. I think I know where that I have to go right back out in the waiting room in a minute so I’m trying not to lose it. I wonder if this gives him the impression that I’m doing better than I am, though. Or maybe now that it’s been two months since I got out of the hospital, that this is a sustainable level of emotions. I don’t know. He did ask me when I was seeing my therapist next, and the answer was today, as I had an evening appointment.

I started straight up full on crying in the waiting room, and continued crying during the whole session, and the therapist clearly gets how bad I feel. He manages to say stuff that makes me feel better, or at least understood, and I end up not really being able to remember anything specific after I leave. Like, I’ll talk about how I don’t see how I can go on, and he’ll say something like “you’re just surviving right now, but you feel really bad” and I’ll be like yes! That’s it exactly! 

He must be concerned for me, because this is through the employee assistance program, and I know those programs have a limit on sessions. If you have more than just a handful, you’re supposed to be in a special program where are you also have a limited number of sessions, but you fill out questionnaires about your symptoms and a bunch of other stuff. I was in that last year, but he just said not to worry about it and is happy for me to go see him every week, so he must be keeping the company off his back somehow.

It just occurred to me on the way home and I’m going to make a note of it to tell my psychiatrist next week, but my parents didn’t ask me if I was OK when I told them that my car was written off. My mom emailed me and asked if I was all right the next day. It didn’t occur to them at the time, because all they give a shit about is money, and when they heard the insurance was paying it that was all they cared about; that, and yelling at me. But really, when I say I was in a car accident and the insurance is writing it off, that could’ve meant that I was in a real wreck. I could’ve been talking to them with casts on my arms and legs. I’m sure if I put it to the bluntly, they totally would deny that money was important to them but the proof is in the pudding; their daughter told them she was in a car accident that resulted in the car being written off, and they didn’t even think to ask me how I was until the next day. So fuck them. Fuck them SO HARD.