As some of you may know, I have issues returning phone calls. It's not the person, or anything like that, it's just the time and effort it takes to make good conversation when all you really want to do it sleep, or take interesting photographs of yourself.

well, that's my problem, anyway.

The other problem I'm having lately is that I don't answer the phone either. I just don't want to talk to the two people that are constantly calling my house, which happen to be 2 of my younger sister's friends.

And when I say constantly, I mean, every freaking day. And night, too. Don't forget night. And they want to be all chatty and ask me how my day went, and how am I liking work, and all that friendly saccharine sweet crap that people use to fill time in their days or space, or whatever.

Personally, I don't make time in my schedule to be fancy shmancy nice to people I don't really plan on having in my life, like my sister's friends. They're weird and not in a good way. Needy in a potentially scary way, as well.

I gave up pretense-based pleasantries a long time ago because I figure they are too fake in the real world. We can be nice to people, but no reason to go over the top and pretend to make plans or say we'll call people we wouldn't look twice at, on a bad day. That's what I mean when I say I gave it up. Why bother, it's a time waster.

Anyway, back to topic. These people have taken to calling when I'm asleep. And like a dumbass (because I think there might be something terribly important that I need to know at 3 a.m.) I answer the phone. It's just her friend, wanting my sister to call her when she wakes up. This morning, I hang up the phone, not even able to articulate to this person how much of a freaking A-hole she was to call at that hour.

That time of night is reserved for Vancouver based rockstars and my mother to call in the event there is an accident.

No shit.
And people wonder why I am so tired and floppy today.

I have lost count of the men that have called me 'Sweet Pea' in my lifetime. I don't think I resemble a leafy pink blossomed plant, but who am I to really say. I spend so little time on my appearance as of late, that I am certain it is affecting my ability to secure a job. I'm sure I look so ordinary. Maybe Ordinary can be good. Who knows.

I read a few other blogs on this dusty old internet. They make me realise that some people just don't care for me as much as I care for them. Reading that sentence back, it sounds so pathetic, but it's a reality. I feel my edges slowly returning to the sharpness they once held. Maybe it's the Fall weather...all crisp mornings and crackling leaves. Little trick or treaters that are seen running from house to house.

Those sharp edges make me talk faster, my ideas so vivid and colourful in my mind that they are in a rush to burst forth like confetti. They make me tear around the apartment in underwear and a sweater, rushing to get from place to place, no rest. No rest.

When I was in the hospital, people cared whether or not I slept. I was constantly asked if I was sleeping and if so, or if not, for how long. And then they would do everything they could to see that I slept more, and better. In the outside world, it's a whole other story. No one really cares for insomniacs. Everyone thinks it's just laziness, or perhaps the complainant is merely searching for attention (as if the way to go about seeking attention is to pretend you can't sleep...heh, pretend). These days, sleep is not as elusive as it had once been. Mostly due to medication. You get the right mix, and Hotchya! sleep action.

Funnily enough, I still aspire to be like everyone else and have the power to fall asleep after lying in bed for a mere 15 minutes.

I guess in the end, I do just want to be like everyone else.

Labels: sleep

Why do I want to eat a poutine that is bigger than my head? Someone mentions it for lunch and suddenly I am salivating all over the place, thinking that is all I want. For the rest of my life. Please God, let me have that poutine.

So, my coworker brings it in and I have to say it’s HUGE. Ginormous. I definitely won’t finish it. Much like the rib dinner my sister treated me to yesterday after a rather hellish doctor’s appointment. Remains of half a cow are sitting in my refrigerator. Maybe I’ll put some grass in there so it can graze.

The past few nights, I’ve been trying to get to bed early. I’ve been watching the 2nd season of Carnivale. I finished the 1st season and decided to go for broke and watch it all. Staring at Nick Stahl’s pretty blue eyes didn’t really play into the decision. When you have limited time to watch television, the decision making process is crucial. Har, har.

I get semi-paid today, so I am going to pick up a new set of sheets. Every once in awhile I get the urge to dress up my bed. I think I will go with hospital green, 400 thread count. Not luxury by any means, but definitely a few steps up from the ratty flannel I am currently using.

I’m living my life by tiny increments. I don’t feel the urge to decorate or festoon my living space with personal touches, because that would make for some heavy moving later on. If accepted, I definitely will be attending university next summer and if I have to move to another country, I don’t want to have to carry a lot of crap around. I already have nearly everything from my old house in storage in Northern Ontario. No sense in gathering up a second household’s worth of things just to make a place kind of pretty.

Less stuff, means easier to leave it all behind when you go.

p.s Where is Rowz??
p.p.s I ate that entire thing.

A lady bug has been marching back and forth across my laptop screen all morning. I think he might be dying now because he’s just crouched on the edge now, not moving at all. He looks the way I feel. No, not red with black dots. Immobile.

I had brought a cd in this morning when I came in to work, early of course. But one of the other workers put on the local radio station. I guess I was ok with it until Shania Twain started warbling away about some man and boots under her bed. That’s when my resolve cracked and I switched to my mixed cd in the hopes of regaining what life I had lost during those crucial moments.

It’s raining where I am today. Even when I am an hour away from where I am now, it’s raining. I drove in the morning mist with stair-rodding rain, listening to whatever happened to be in the cd player.

I leave every morning with my hair in a knot, and my keys dangling from my fingers. I’m usually distracted into wondering if I’ve left anything important behind. Then I forget that and get into my car and drive away. Today, I forgot a sweater. The rain sends a small chill in through my clothes and it feels like my feet have been cold since forever.

Now, the lady bug is perched on a yellow post-it note.
Since the show last week I’m thinking:
Love
Breath
Breathing under water
Sounds
Dark
Lights
Sweet

Our office is like a tiny, tiny sauna. The heat radiates in through the walls, and no matter how many fans we have going, or how many windows are open…it still feels like I should be wearing a towel and having a good steam.

My older sister has a cold and her voice is almost completely gone. She sounds like the Godfather. She dispenses advice from her office in London via email and I just sit here and worry that I am again, fucking up at my job. One of my managers corrects me on everything down to her middle initial. I guess I was never very good at constructive criticism. Given my age, I doubt it’s something that will change anytime soon.

hell is red
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

one of the first photos taken at the London show. I'm sure other fans took similar photos but I still think mine are better. All because of that blessedly huge lens.

I press my sweet, beautiful face into my pillow to sleep. The light wakes me up, the sounds of a city that never really settles down helps me sleep; sirens, yelling people, squealing brakes, traffic noises. Noise needs to be present. I also leave The Ice Harvest playing so Cusack's soft spoken voice is also there when I hook up my star to jet off into dream world.


I have bipolar type 2 disorder. In my head, it sounds like I'm talking about diabetes. I was diagnosed in June of this year, after I tried suicide twice in the space of 4 days. I spent 2 weeks in a locked ward at the hospital. My sister came to visit and brought me cigarettes and pens with paper.

Preceeding the hospital, I was underwater all the time. I lost my job. I had no hope. MG saved me that night.

The truth is: I am a social worker, and I wonder all the time about whether or not I can be a good social worker when I have this mental illness. I keep wondering if there is a conflict of interest there.

I kept referring to that time as 'being sick', without really getting into the nitty gritty of what was going on with me. I wrote cryptic entries so I could gloss over the words 'suicide' and 'kill'. Little words that look so sharp in the daylight.

I have to take 3 different kinds of medication that are supposed to keep me 'even' now. I take them but I hate doing it. It's just not something I ever thought I would be the person to do. I have my own personal stigmas that I place on mental illness.

I had it in my head that only people who were lazy of the mind were depressed and/or suicidal. That those people were just nuts. It has been hard to place myself in that category. I know this is not supposed to be what people think about people with mental illness but it was something I could not separate myself from.

I don't remember much from the ICU of the hospital. I remember Matthew's voice messages and being scared to call him back. I remember not having the power to leave the hospital to hide under my blankets at home.

Labels: bipolar

WOO,

I know I've been absent lately, mostly due to my new work schedule and the fact that I have to drag myself out of bed at the inhuman hour of 5:45 a.m. in order to get to work on time. But last night, it was due to my being in the presence of Matthew Good at the show in London. Being good sports, my older sister and I were to catch up with Matt afterwards for a quick visit before he went to bed/headed off to Ottawa on the tour bus.

I didn't know what to say, I was tongue tied. And I didn't take any photos of his soft looking socks or tired face as we made small talk. I did however, get some pretty amazing photos during the show, which will be posted at some point (read: whenever I get off my ass and find the USB cable).

He's had a big role in my life the past few months, and it was a shame we didn't go out for dinner as we had originally thought but it was fun nonetheless. I didn't get to sleep until 1:20. I am exhausted, pretending I am the perky person in the office today when really I just want to race home and do a handstand into my bed.

Pictures posted later. Thanks for all the great comments and emails. Keep it coming.
G.

Labels: Matthew Good, sleep, work

I almost got stuck on the ferry talking to a woman who screeched like Carmela Soprano this afternoon. I tried to break into her one woman 4 act play about her moving from Windsor for Northern Ontario, meeting a guy and then staying to work in the mines. She started talking about mining and how women aren't really encouraged to work there. After the first 15 minutes, I realised she had probably watched North Country too many times and probably fancied herself as a Charlize Theron look-a-like.

Pretending to take Buckley for a walk, I changed locations and almost barfed when I watched the water and scenery go by. I've decided I don't like the ferry anymore. All I can think about when I'm on it is what would happen if Buckley suddenly plummeted under the guard rails and into the water? Would I be brave enough to jump in or would I just stand there and weep like an idiot?

Home now. Driving into the city, I didn't feel like I was coming home. No sense of relief. No sighing as I passed the London city limits. Just...nothing. In all honesty, I don't think I've felt really like I had a home of my own since well...since I owned my house.

Slick streets, old songs and comforting movies. They must be my guard rails.
I did get a job, though. And the Matt Good concert is on Tuesday.

Home tomorrow. I make a little voyage, which always makes me feel a little bit romantic, and then a nice drive home during which I listen to music that I love.

I used to think of music as something that was real. Real in that it meant something, like a song for someone. Not me, not ever me. But for someone else. Which is ok. But the fact that someone penned the words, and came up with the tune...for someone to hear...seemed a bit like magic.

Over the past year, I seem to have lost that feeling. And I miss it. I miss feeling passion for music because it felt like the glue that held me together. Sad. Definitely.

But I still listen.
Just in case it comes back.

I got chills...they're multiplyin'.....
I get the weirdest musical urges sometimes. For instance, the past few weeks have been a focus on Bruce Springsteen. This week I seem to have a hankering for stuff from the soundtrack of the Grease movie. Can't be anyone else singing the stuff than Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta. And Garbage. The band, not the material.

Well. I was ready to hop on the boat and skip this town tomorrow morning because I was bored out of my mind. I had already watched every single movie in the house, the internet was broken and I had limited music available on my laptop. But really...the internet was broken. There are two desk top computers plus my laptop here in this house and no internet to be had. It was like torture.

Anyway, after much fiddling it seems to have revived itself minus the wireless option, so I am chained to this tiny desk my younger sister used to use before going away to school. Not chained. Just temporarily stuck here while I write a quick post and head back below stairs to watch The Departed for the 24th time.

No. Seriously.

It has been a lesson in tranquility here, I have to admit. But I will like getting back to the sounds of nightly sirens and people yelling on the street outside my window. At night here, I can't get used to the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind. It sounds kind of nice at first, but after awhile, I wonder if maybe there isn't a gigantic mouse in those leaves or something. Maybe a chipmunk.

On the back country roads of Southern Ontario on my way to this tranquil Island, I got a little bit lost and called my older sister on my trusty cell phone. The only sentence I could get out before the signal died was something like:
" No, seriously...I keep going through these little towns, and there is no one in them....I feel like I've wandered into Children of the Corn or something..."

I don't care what anyone says, being in or around a corn field is freaking creepy.
Tuning out,
G.


You're The One I Want - John Travolta (Grease)

Ok. It's night time now. My sister who is in her first year of University tells me she goes to school with Tim Horton. I just think that means she's drinking a lot of coffee. For readers in the states, Tim Hortons is like America's Dunkin Donuts. Very popular in Ontario.

Turns out that Tim Horton she is going to school with is actually the nephew of the real Tim Horton.

Of course, that's all fine and dandy, but I've been making jokes all night saying that Tim Horton's nickname ought to be Double Double. She doesn't really get it.

So I just say that it's like introducing her friend and his name is Pepsi Cola.

Hilarious.

I'm visiting my sort of childhood home, for the holidays. We haven't done the whole turkey thing yet, I think that is tomorrow. But since I've been here, we've already had a crab dinner and they are in the process of making some other kind of big dinner thing. All Ifrom the kitchen is: "Do I put water in this bowl before adding the powder?", and "No, no, you add the powder first then put in the water, and you need to check that beef to make sure it's not being over-cooked!" Two bickering people in there, it's a comforting sound.

Meanwhile, I've been sneaking outside for cigarettes (due to the no smoking policy in the house) and downloading tracks I am pretty sure I do not have already in my music folder from the Matthew Good site. You should go see, there's commentary and free goodies like music.
http://www.matthewgood.org/

Marble is here. He goes clicking across the room on his too long fingernails and grunts and groans when he has to get up for a drink of water or to follow me around. Buckley just hangs out with me, or runs around the house because of all the room. Of course, he'd be comfortable here, since he spent the first 8 months of his life in this house.

I may get together with an old school friend for coffee at some point but I'm not really sure yet. I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the leaves last night, with both Marble and Buckley crowding me. I was going to originally stay for a few days next week, but now I'm rethinking that idea.

I don't really know why. But I do kind of feel like I'm about 12 right now.

Smoke time.
Chao.

I love being on the internet when I'm waiting on a grassy knoll for the ferry to show up. Traffic was madness. I don't know why everyone drives like old people. Honestly, I don't get it. When you are travelling somewhere for holidays or campouts or whatever....don't you just want to get there and set things up?

Apparently not.

Ouch. I just got bit by a mosquito. My first of the summer season. Yes, I know it's October now. I guess there weren't any in London this year.

Oh jeez. I just saw a gigantic Citation motorhome pull up. Driven by...two really old people. Well, I guess that says something for me when I'm that age. No excuse for not getting around on my own.

I probably look like a freak sitting here in the middle of all this nature, at the tip of Lake Huron, tapping away on the laptop. Cigarette is burning beside me. If they sold coffee anywhere in this town, I would probably have a cup of it sitting beside me too. But I couldn't find any, not even at the gas station.

Anyway. Time to log off. Before someone figures out I have their signal on this grassy knoll.

Truth be told, I'm so sick of whining about being sick or sad, or 'not feeling so hot', that I could die. It's not as though those are the only parts of my life. Maybe in the moment, they certainly feel that way. I should update this blog somewhere other than bed, really.

This weekend, I guess I'll be the 'sad girl on the ferry' when I go home for Thanksgiving. You know what I mean; you notice a lone figure standing on the deck of the ferry, smoking cigarettes. She has windswept hair and sad eyes. Maybe her little dog is pulling on his leash to go elsewhere....but that's where she stands, looking out onto the painfully blue water. Maybe she's in deep thought about her lost love, or the fact she can't cook. Or perhaps, she is mourning the fact she never bought those trendy Gucci sunglasses at the Half-off store and now has to face the others on the boat with bare eyes. And you know just by her luggage that she must feel somewhat cosmopolitan for appearing at her family home in time for the holidays. Able and eager to leave after dinner. Slick sunglasses or not.

Yep. I'll play that part in public just because maybe I have nothing else to do. The only thing that sucks about it is they do not allow smoking on deck anymore. Must be all the cigarette butts that are floating in Lake Huron. Or maybe the seagulls finally got together and made a stink about the tainted air they have to deal with as they fly in tandem with the boat as it crosses from Tobermory to Manitoulin Island.

We call it a boat, not a ferry. Unsophisticated. But I don't think the locals care. Or the tourists, for that matter.

Nuts man, we're all just nuts. Excuse me, I must go and listen to Bruce Springsteen now.

Labels: acting, Bruce Springsteen, family, Ferry, Gish, holidays, music, New York, smoking

Most times I don't update is because I'm tired when I finally get near the computer that I can't think of putting emotion into words.

Tonight, or this morning rather, I'm just going to bed, it's 5 a.m. A perfect example of insomnia for any of those doubters out there. Not feeling so hot lately, think I might take a trip up North to visit family for the holidays. Maybe I will stay a few days longer to recharge before coming back to London.

There was something about driving through the rain slicked streets at 3 in the morning. The rain beaded down the windshield at stop lights. The reassuring sound of the wipers scraping water from my vision. My cigarette smoke swirling out of the window. It was something profoundly lonely. Not lonely for some stick of meat in bed with me. Not lonely for lack of people. I guess lonely that it seems I can't roll up my sleeves and get my shit together like everyone else on this planet. I don't want to be that girl who is perpetually floundering through life. No one is able to fix that, just me. And it's a bit scary because I'm not sure if I am able to. Or even know how to.

This has been a self pity party for myself. I'm sure everyone has gotten their invitations. Cheques are in the mail.

G.

Labels: bipolar, melancholy