Thanks Jeff for fixing the blog, it was briefly busted this morning. Jeff continues to be awesome.
Bad language, triggery stuff about suicidal feelings (now blessedly slid by), raw emotion and yet more profanity. At least I’m not complaining about work. Fair Warning?
FUCKSTICKS.
I just realized I’ll never get a gun licence in this country now. Derp. Herpderp. bwaaaaaaaaaaaah-ding! Now I know I was really screwed up. Even if I’d thought about it at the time (and I didn’t) it wouldn’t have changed my mood (people talking to me and the act of forcing myself to say goodbye to things did that). I lost my connection to others and they plugged me back in again. I lost my connection to my sense of my place and ‘re-place-ing’ myself helped. And if I’d had a gun in the house I wouldn’t have used it to kill myself because after watching 79 billion forensics shows I can’t handle splatter and I would not, no matter how screwed up I was, make that much of a mess, whether in this house, or my car, or anyplace else. Gotta be tidy about it *which given how my room looks is richly comic*. Also, many horrifying mental pictures of surviving a gun suicide attempt. Thank you internet.
I can look back on it and say what the hell happened? What I really want to do is figure out how to prevent it from ever happening again, seeing as how my poor parents were making travel plans to put me on 24 hour watch if things got worse and they really really don’t need the aggro and pOp hates the lower Mainland with a passion that is normally reserved for eggplant, the Justice Minister, anchovies and reality tv. And I don’t want to take drugs for depression. I have many reasons, some good, some bad, for that. I loved Prozac (except for the 20 pound weight gain, the destruction of my sex drive and the complete absence of songwriting or creativity while I was on it, and the eight months it took my sex drive to come back after the four months I took it) and the Wellbutrin made me even crazier than I already am (just ask daughter Katie about that, she’ll give you a profanity laden earful.)
Quhat was going on there? For three weeks food had no taste; I went all bleak and completely lost my sense of humour; Conflikt forced me to put the smile on but I crashed really hard afterwards (but of course there was some very intense and emotional stuff in there which left me thinking about death a lot, as I always do when I think about John) *and my ex’s girlfriend, who continues to live rent free in my mental attic, which by itself is enough to make the inside of my skull look like an aerial shot of a train derailment crossed with last year’s pricing model*. John died, Unca Dave died, Granny died, Gizmo died. Bang bang bang bang.
Seems a bit much to quit going to Conflikt just so I won’t be all wooble sadface afterwards; I’ll have to think on it some more. I love Paul in my own demanding and unrealistic fashion, and I don’t grudge him any happiness he can squeeze from life, and I am after all the one that forced the sale of the house and moved out; but it was to avoid suicide that time that I took all those steps, and I was clearly and obviously saner afterward, so it was the right thing to do and my regrets are of a practical and not emotional nature. I just want a public acknowledgment and apology from the manipulative and charming sociopath who *this long and interesting description of his activities deleted on the anxious advice of my inner lawyer – and NO it’s not about Paul but it’s directly connected to my marriage auguring in* – and unicorns are gonna slide down rainbows and poop gold bars (clarn!) before that happens. There you have it…. one of the REAL reasons I was feeling like offing myself and I can’t even fill in the blanks because El Slime-o might come after me for defamation. (There are two main others, but I’m sitting with them and will talk to the dude about that next Monday). Wa wa, I’m never going to get closure.
Well sheeeeeeeit. I NEVER WILL. I never, ever, fucking well ever will get closure. Will I have to write a roman a clef about that terrible situation to be free of it? Shall I turn my pain to profit? By the Grand Hyatt Seattle I Sat Down and Wept? Uh, no. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Once again my standards for my own behaviour are giggling in corners and braiding nooses while saying “Shuush. Shoosh now.”
And it ain’t about me any longer. I have some context, it’s about the people who’d be alternately devastated, I mean absolutely screwed up for months and months, or really angry at my selfishness, or really pleased that I had killed myself. Yes, there are people who’d be happy if I killed myself, but yannowhut? Fuck all you fucking fuckers, I won’t give you the satisfaction, and I don’t want to hurt the hordes of people who in fine Canadian fashion, jumped out from the brushy roadsides of the internet and said “Let me distract you with this SOUP! Ya okay now you’re in a headlock let’s talk some sense into you.” “I will HUG your bad feelings INTO SUBMISSION – with my brain!” The point being if you tell people how you feel they can do something about it. I have a little file of all the support messages I got and I will look at them before I do something stupid like that again. And I know who I’ll talk to first.
In other news, I have finished the homily and fired it off to my mOm. The homily takes place 20 years in the future. There’s nothing like a thought experiment to keep the creative juices flowing.
I have to get the order of service to my coordinator, along with her reading.
Oh, and if you object to my swearing, check this out, also this and this. I’m fighting pain, I’m using a class marker, and I’m being a good feminist. If you believe any of that you’re being simply delightful, but at least I am trying to make the point that swearing isn’t bad in and of itself and that my swearing IS a marker for pain, desolation, egalitarian musings, anger, agony and childish attention getting, also sometimes it just livens things the fuck up.
