The day started off very late for me, where we were up quite late last night because we just weren't tired. Janice had the last four weeks off to recuperate from her knee surgery, in which her surgeon determined that she needed knee replacement. That may happen as soon as before the end of the year. She will then need six months to recuperate. After that, knee replacement for her other knee may be on the horizon, which likely means permanent disability, like me.
But these past four weeks have been very nice, for the most part. There have been absolutely no issues between us through this time, and indeed, pretty much ever since we got together 31 years ago. Any issues that have arisen have always been due to outside meddling or troublemakers, really of which there have been few as well. One of those occurred during last month.
August 2, 2022 was the last time I self-harmed. I used to say that was the last time I endured an anxiety attack, but I can't quite claim that. They don't always go hand in hand. They did at work, though, especially while I was employed with Shoppers Drug Mart. I did work for one of the stores for ten years for a great boss named Jamie, who is one of the most understanding, gregarious individuals I've ever been blessed to know, and especially to have for a boss. I suffered numerous attacks at work there and asked for time to cope, and he was 100% understanding, telling me to take care of myself first and foremost.
When Jamie left at the end of that ten years, though, I had a new guy to work under that really, really didn't work out. In fact, beyond the pharmacy at that store, I was the last staff member left that was at the opening of that building when it was rebuilt. I watched countless folks get forced out or leave before I finally did.
On my daughter's birthday that year, I came home from work, exasperated and frustrated, to the point that the mental anguish was too much to process, and jumped and landed horizontally on the hard living room floor - breaking ribs in my back in the process. I desperately texted my wife at work "help" several times, because I couldn't call to speak, as I'd lost my voice and breath. It took a half hour to gain the ability to breathe properly again. She came home minutes later and helped me get upstairs to lie on the soft mattress.
Following that, she spoke to our family physician, who advised her to get the ball rolling to proceed to get me on permanent disability. About a year later, after several more anxiety attacks - but only a fraction of what I'd endured from work - the government concluded I indeed qualified. I broke down in tears when I found out, because I just didn't feel like many believed me when I told anyone of my struggles with mental illness. It carries a stigma, after all.
Today, I deal with an added stigma: being in my mid 50's and on permanent disability.
As I progress through my thirteenth month straight of not self-harming, worthy of note because I do have to fight the urges to sometimes; though not often, I've learned through Janice to accept that I have not self-harmed, but I have dealt with anxiety attacks. They produce a very weird chemistry in my head where I feel like I'm bottoming out, spiraling. What pulls me out of it is cannabis with THC. It's become somewhat of a life-saving miracle for me. I've also discovered that also carries a stigma with it to those who don't accept the modern legality of it in the present time. But that, I don't worry about.
The issue I dealt with last month was one where I felt quite unaccepted by someone associated with my wife's family. I'd rather not get into the details - only that it's an ongoing issue for years that has mushroomed this summer. The incident sent me into a tailspin mentally and spiritually that left me so confused and drained that my mind went to very dark places... places that made me contemplate the worst toward myself. One weekend night at three in the morning I walked to the Gunningsville Bridge and stopped in the middle, looking down at the river below. "It would only take a minute," I thought to myself. For a half hour I stood there in the dead of the warm night breeze. This was a couple of weeks after the 'incident'. I eventually opted to walk home.
This wasn't the only time thoughts like that invaded my head in the last month. It made August a challenge, because family was in town visiting, and gatherings were frequent. I didn't attend many of them, because of this whole mess of anxiety I was dealing with, but I still went to some of them. I feared much of my family might not understand my absence, but via communicating with Janice, they certainly did. I also did not let anyone know of my bridge visit or ponderance until the writing of this blog you may be reading right now. As those August days rolled on, so did doubts about myself. The anxiety ball was rolling, running down hope as it trolled through my head.
The four weeks Janice was off might well have been crucial in saving me. We rarely spend time apart, after all. During that four weeks, we actually weren't apart. Every day I woke up, she was there. When I went to sleep, she was there. Every night she tells me before she drifts off, "remember, I'm right here beside you." I have a lot of friends in passing, all of whom are special to me in various ways, but I have no frequent friends anymore.
It's funny, so many of these friends, and family, upon hearing I qualified for disability, offered me literal congratulations, as if I'd achieved some goal. I was a proud worker right up to my last day on April 22, 2020. Maybe too proud sometimes. Before working for Shoppers, I worked driving for BJ's Subs and Catering for 11 years, probably the most content period of my life. Never let anyone tell you a retail job, in any capacity (in my case a receiver), is better than a driving job. My heart goes out to retail workers. It either hardens you like a shield, or you buckle under the pressure. In my case, due to my mental health history, I buckled, and am today officially labeled "disabled".
Being put on disability was good, all said. If I'd continued staying at the job I was at, I surely would have run into far more serious issues. Before I'd ever worked for Shoppers, I was mentally compromised already, after all, but my driving job never pushed me to the depths that my retail one did. Not even close. But after working 12 years in retail (I was at two other SDM stores before landing at the last one), I couldn't get used to retail life, or the rotten treatment Loblaw doled out to their employees when they took over halfway through my run there via Shoppers. I don't want to make myself sound like I thought I was the ideal employee. There are a lot of things I'd do differently today - but I think that goes with a lot of folks. Truth be told, no one was harder on me than myself.
But I continue to be hard on myself long after I've left the workplace. My wife got her knee diagnosed by doctors who saw the problems and issued them to get fixed promptly, relatively speaking, compared to my own mental illness. After all, an MRI or X-ray will show torn tissue and broken bones, which gets treated upon diagnosis. Me... I haven't even been properly diagnosed. I have no idea what I have, what to call what I deal with. It resembles depression, anxiety, PTSD and trauma, but there is no official term. Just guesses according to the history of my health. My physician did what he could. He gave me meds to calm the fires that often lit up my brain, but that's a band-aid solution. It doesn't get to the heart of the matter like a psychologist or psychiatrist can. I had both of those.... I ran out of money to pay for a psychologist, and my psychiatrist gave up on me. So, I'm on my own. I continue to take SSRIs and now cannabis oils to stave off The Monster.
Being out of work has greatly curtailed my anxiety, but it didn't cure it. Now I'm left waking up in the morning feeling like I have little to no purpose. My cat Marbles walks on my head to wake me up to feed him - outside of that, anyone I know is working, including my wife. I've lost interest in things I used to love doing. I love playing drums, but I have nothing to motivate me to. I always have artsy things flying around in my head (especially on cannabis... WOW.) but then ask myself, "what for?" When people create things, they want to show others. I have no one to do that for outside of my wife. I find writing this very blog therapeutic, but I'll only post a link to it on social media rather than just stick it out there outright. I think there are those who might construe these writings as me crying victim. Maybe I am. Janice is a victim of knee problems, and no one will hesitate to offer their understanding of that. I see it her deal with it! And it's terrible, and at times heartbreaking. But my psychological issues.... I think there are a lot of folks who'll just think "suck it up and move on." And this lack of understanding does nothing for me when I reach my lowest, like at the bridge.
The chances of me of jumping off that night were very slim. I was really only contemplating. Until a Rush song called 'The Pass' glided through my head. No hero in your tragedy...no daring in your escape...no salutes to your surrender...nothing noble in your fate. Christ! What have you done? The aftermath. The damage I would leave in my wake. That made me turn around and walk the razor's edge. I can't turn my back and slam the door on my family.
And I live to fight another day. The tattoo on my back, words from a song called "Dream In My Life" by King's X, is an ode to my wife and daughter. I feel it's me speaking to Janice and Lexy.
It's a struggle. Everyone deals with them. I know I'm not alone in that. I'm not the only one to have had a hard life. Sometimes people feel they have to remind me of that. And I actually find it insulting and insensitive, but accept the notion they don't realize it. Ignorance is not always bliss. Sometimes it's just ignorance.
But I accept it for another day.
Above ground.
