Been almost a month since I posted here.
It's been over three months since I had my last unmanageable anxiety attack. That's quite a roll for me. Ever since the day I found out I was approved for disability, a lot changed. The stress on me over not being a provider of any sort was weighing on me pretty heavily, and although the payments are only half of what I was earning when I was working, at least it's something.
Still, I'm left with that lingering feeling that I shouldn't be on it. Why? Why can't I just be happy and thankful that I live in a country that supports people like me who run into this type of situation - in this case, hard-to-manage anxiety brought on by multiple physical and mental trauma? I get this feeling in my craw that I should be working. I want to be working.
But I have to stop and think about exactly what I would be doing. Retail work is a no-go for me for good now. Although that last ten years of work wasn't directly retail, as I was a receiver, I still took a lot of flak from store traffic, which I've learned I have a hard time deflecting. Also, recognition is kind of important to me where I like to actually work hard. It sounds very silly and petty - but there was an 'employee of the month' thing at work, where fellow employees and management nominate a co-worker for going above and beyond, as it were. In those ten years I was nominated a total of three times; once because I literally asked for it! That seems sad, reading it back. So then, it makes me question whether I was a good worker at all. Then doubt sets in, self criticism, then anxiety, then.... ugly things happen.
In short, I would need to work a job where my efforts are noticed and that I enjoyed with low stress levels. That eliminates pretty much everything. My last long-tenured job was delivering for BJ's Catering, a sandwich shop founded by the family of my very first boss, Donnie Goguen. That man was one of my life's biggest mentors. I still find myself asking sometimes, what would Donnie do? He shaped me into being the committed worker I became. But once he left BJ's, a series of unfortunate events befell the shop, not the least of which included a fire, and I had to leave when things got a little too hairy. Not long after I left, the shop was sold to a third owner. I wound up leaving to work at a drug store chain as receiver at three different stores covering a period of nearly 13 years. Things changed a lot there when a giant corporation swallowed up the store chain and the employees got treated worse and worse. When my manager of ten years left, not long afterward, so did I. As did everyone who worked for him. He was much like Donnie was, but had less control over situations where Donnie was the actual business owner.
Of course, I left because I nearly severely injured myself in a major anxiety attack, and Janice took steps to get me out of that job once and for all. I did send in a letter of resignation, but couldn't go to the store to deliver it personally because of... well, anxiety. I thanked my employer, but received no thanks in return, no card, no nothing; when I know everyone else who leaves gets some kind of fanfare. So not getting any recognition whatsoever hurt a lot. I haven't even heard from anyone there at all.
So, I have to be careful not to subject myself to a work environment that toxic again. Thing is, the last number of jobs I've had were that way. My anxiety ramps up and I lose control. Medication helps, but it's not a cure-all, because what's going on with me is different from others with anxiety and depression. Unless there's some other group of us out there that got cranked in the head as often and violently as I did and had the same circumstances during the pre-awareness era for concussions. I've seen counselors. They offer little to no help. The last one I had was a fucking joke. That was $400 not well wasted.
These days now, I sleep fairly well, although lately my tremors during the night are creeping back in, along with the bad dreams and nightmares. I dream a lot about getting in trouble at work, or the wife leaving me, or just being alone in very spacious, dark places. I never thought I would retire, but this is not how I would have envisioned it. I guess I just have to find a way to accept it, unless something comes along that I can actually handle working at without going off the deep end.
All that said, I'll just have to try to enjoy summer for once. Last summer I was off, too, not working, but I was miserable. Everything was uncertain and hanging in the air; but the doctor insisted disability was necessary. Janice did too. This summer, maybe I should just make the effort to take life in, rather than buck it back like I've been doing most of the past year.
At the house here, things are finally getting done. It's a little bit exciting. Our bathroom's plumbing issues just might be fixed once and for all. Next week we've got a drywall outfit coming in to begin replacing some of the walls that needed attention since we were first here in '98. We won't be able to afford to do everything, but at least things are moving now.
I've been in a funk playing my drums for a while now, so I need to get back on that. Essentially, I'm just playing by myself - with some nifty Beats headphones, so it's kind of fun, but I need to get back into the right headspace, I guess. It certainly appears my jamming or live playing days are over. There was this time in the 90s when I guested as the drummer for a guy I know that played on Main Street sometimes. He told me to come jam with them, I said 'what songs do you play?' Ah, just come jam, you'll know them! Well, that was an unmitigated nightmare. The songs were like old Neil Young and America kind of stuff, or CCR or what have you, which is all well and good... but I didn't know them at all. The guitar guy had me speeding up and slowing down mid-song as I just played generic beats to this music as best I could without knowing the cues or punch notes or anything. At that point I'd made up my mind that I wouldn't play live again, EVER.
Then YQM happened. We made a CD release and did one gig and it was over. A series of events happened after that which soured me on the scene altogether, including actually putting an ad on Kijiji to play with somebody, and it appears I'm probably too old or something. Or not that good. I certainly don't feel like I play too great, anyway. Still, I've got a new-to-me drumkit that I have to use. It's good exercise anyway, the way I play. My audience are the spiders or mice or whatever's checking me out in the basement. In short, drums were a passion I had that's faded to just a long lost love. They say follow your dreams. I can't follow mine off a cliff or anything.
Then there's the gym. We've been very faithful going there for the last number of months now. That makes me feel pretty good, doing a two hour workout every other day and going home and showering and having supper. By no means whatsoever am I "built" or "sculpted" or something. All I know is I feel good and my heart rate is nice and low, and as long as I stay in the 185 pound range, I'm good with it. Even more importantly, the wife is doing great with the gym herself. She's become scary strong, which is good, because her job requires a fair amount of exertion. When you consider she used to be near 260 lbs, and today she's hovering around the high 180's, that's progress. Her health is a priority of mine.
Something else I did a few weeks ago is get my Irish Catholic Cross tattoo, right smack dab in the middle of my breastbone. I guess I didn't think it through. I was laying on the table while my lovely tattoo artist did her work, which took upwards of three hours, perfectly still and quiet. On the outside. The inside was a different story. I pressed my finger and thumb so fiercely together in my pants pockets that I think they traded fingerprints. I clenched my jaw so tight that I'm pretty sure I don't have any more receding gums. And in my head I was speaking in tongues. "SON OF A MOTHER ****!! HOW MUCH LONGER?? ************!!!!!" I was amused to find out when she was done, she proclaimed "you did really, really good, that's one of the most sensitive areas to get work done!" Well, honey, if my brain was hooked up to a speaker, there wouldn't be enough swear jars in town to collect for the colorful words I was coming up with! Alas, in the end, it's a lovely tattoo and I'm quite proud of it. It reflects my faith and Irish heritage.
For those of you that keep tabs on me somewhat, that's a basic update of what's goin' on. I know it's a fairly uneventful post here, but sometimes no news is good news, eh? Here's hoping the next time I provide an update, it won't be about some anxiety attack I had that I couldn't stave off.
I appreciate your kindness to read this humble blog post.
Take good care, my friends.
