Feeling very freaked out and overwhelmed right now.
Just got back from my cardiologist, Doctor Ebtia. She was upset with me because my blood pressure is still too high. So she threw a whack more prescriptions at me and berated me about taking better care of myself.
And she’s right, of course. I don’t take nearly good enough care of myself. I manage to take the pills I should (mostly) but anything more than that and I fail spectacularly.
Why? Depression. I’m too crazy to look after myself properly. All that pain that hangs from my heart like filthy icicles weights me down and keeps me from even being able to focus on what I should do let alone actually do it.
My mental illness is going to kill me and I don’t know what the hell I can do about it.
I am so profoundly paralyzed inside. Midnight tundra, through and through. Everything that should spur me into action just causes pain and heartache and sadness instead.
I dig deep to try and find a spark of life that can be my spark plug, but all I find is freezer-burned flesh beyond resurrection and seized machines choked by rust.
I can’t do this any more. I am tired of pretending to be competent. I am not. I’m a flaming failure who can’t even manage his very undemanding life and I have to admit ut to myself and the world that I can’t do this by myself.
I’ve never been able to do this by myself.
I’ve just never had a choice, either.
I’m gonna lay down.
I still can’t
Feeling somewhat better after a power nap, but still pretty freaked out.
Because it’s such an intractable problem. I’m too crazy to live but not nearly crazy enough to qualify for any kind of life assistance.
After all, on paper, I have successfully taken care of myself for 25+ years.
Of course, most of that time I was leeching off a roomie’s competence. Especially my dear friend Joe. But the point is, I mange to survive without additional assistance from the province, so as far as they are concerned, I’m good.
Not sure I could make myself call them up and say, “um, actually, it turns out that I’ve been failing at this the whole time and now I’m dying so um….. help?”.
But there is no other way to circumvent my mental health issues either. There’s no special Home For Those Who Just Can’t where you can surrender your adulthood and undertake an extended course in Remedial Coping.
And it’s so frustrating because I know I could do so much better if I could just get my head on straight. I’m an amazing guy hobbled by crippling issues and it’s so unfair.
I don’t wanna die. Mostly. I want to overcome all my problems and become the fabulous phenomenon I know I can be. I could shine so bright if I could just get out of my own way for a bit.
But I am going to need some serious life assistance to do that.
Would it be wrong for me to try to find it via dating?
More after the break.
Adventures in stupidity
Holy Captain Clusterfuck, kids. This one’s a doozy.
OK. So I ordered from my beloved Pokey Okey tonight. Typical Tuesday night.
An appropriate amount of time later, the phone rings, and I instantly know something is wrong because the voice on the other end is crystal clear.
That means it is NOT coming through our build’s intercom/doorbell system. And that means some idiot is flummoxed by the byzantine complexities of picking up a phone receiver and dialing 0601.
So my delivery dude is on the other end. But he doesn’t tell me that he’s here with my order like a normal Dasher, oh no. That’s nowhere near stupid enough.
He asks me if I want the food now.
“Um, what?” is my urbane retort.
He asks me if I want the food now, or later, because Pokey Okey closes at 9:30 pm.
“What time is it now?” I ask.
“Um, 8:45. ” he replies.
“So what’s the problem?” is my incredibly logical response.
He then mumbles “Oh, ok then…. ” and hangs up.
This leaves me to contemplate the infinitely complexities of human stupidity.
Act 2, I get another call from Mister Mental, and now he kicks into high gear with the not being able to work the intercom. I explain to him that he has hang up his cell phone[1] and use the phone built into our builing. at least six times, but he’s not getting it.
Finally, Julian volunteers to go down and get my order manually. Fine.
Julian comes back and says he left the order by our door somehow (even though I never let him in) and Julian has left it in the kitchen.
I come out to get my food finally and SURPRISE, it’s the wrong order!
In fact, it’s not even an order from Door Dash. It’s from Uber Fucking Eats.
So now I have about $50 worth of Pokey Okey that does not belong to me to somehow reconnect with its proper home.
But that proves impossible, because there is no “I have someone else’s order” option on the Uber Eats website. NONE.
Everything assumes you are complaining about YOUR order and I didn’t order shit.
So I had to give up. It’s ours now, I guess. God damnit.
Somewhere, somebody is missing $50 worth of Pokey Okey! And that bugs the crap out of me. Offends my sense of order.
All I could do is tell Door Dash my order never arrived. It has now been re-delivered. I am about to go get it.
I swear to God, if there is anything wrong this time, I am going to go cartoon crazy.
Wish me luck. I am taking my very sanity into my hands.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.