No? Dang. Guess I’ll have to write one myself.

Have I told you people about the fax thing yet? No? Well then fasten your seat beats, it’s going to be a very boring time.

Basically, in order to get into Kwantlen requires, naturally enough, my transcripts from my high school, the venerable Three Oaks Senior High. So I emailed one of the school “administrative assistants” (apparently, there’s no such thing as a school secretary any more) and asked her about my transcripts.

Luckily, they still have them. I mean, it seems like the kind of thing they would keep around, but I have been forgotten so many times that I have lost count, so I tend to expect the worst.

I know. That’s fucked up. Working on it.

All I had to do was sign a form and everything would be a-OK. Problem : I am almost as far away from my hometown as one can get and still be in Canada. Can’t exactly go there to do it, and the mail would take forever.

Solution : Faxing! Remember that? The secretary offered to fax it here where I could sign it and fax it back.

Problem : Who the heck has a fax machine these days?

Answer : Older people! People of my parents’ generation. For them, the fax machine was probably the last new technology they fully understood. And they are darn handy for things like this.

If it’s 1998. But anyhow.

First, I asked Felicity if her mother had a working fax machine. The answer, sadly, was sorta. It sends, but it does not receive. Tragic, I know.

But then I remembered that my therapist had one. He has one of those fax/printer/copier gizmos that still impress the hell out of me despite being seriously obsolete.

What can I say, I love that someone finally realized that all three functions can be done with the same machinery. It is a brilliant merger of products.

Anyhoo, I called my therapist and he agreed to lend me his fax, so to speak. I emailed the fax number to the secre admin assistant, and when I got to therapy, the form was waiting for me to sign.

Amusingly, my therapist filled it out himself (except for the part with my signature, of course). I guess he is so used to doing that kind of thing that it didn’t even occur to him that I was capable of doing it myself.

Oh well, it got done, that’s what is important. It got filled out, signed, and faxed back.

PEI is in the Atlantic Time Zone, which means they are four hours ahead of us in time. So the school was closed when we sent the fax. Presumably, they won’t actually see it till Monday.

But the point is, they will sent my transcripts to Kwantlen in Richmond, and I will have dotted my T’s and crossed my I’s.

And I’s the b’y that built the boat, after all. And I’s the b’y that sailed her, too. True story.

So, therapy. Going to talk about what went down there, because of course, a lot happened other than just the fax. M’am.

See, I have been having suicidal impulses lately. Now don’t flip out! That’s all they are, impulses. They come, I resist, they go. They are something I have dealt with, off and on, for ten years at least.

The difference is, this time I actually told my shrink about them. That was not easy for me. I usually keep that shit to myself because I don’t want to scare people away from me or freak them out. Unconsciously, I had been doing the same with my therapist. I’ve been going to him for two years, and yet, I was still shielding him.

And if there is one person who should know about your suicidal impulses, it’s your therapist.

That’s like, totally the kind of thing they deal with.

It’s not easy for me to tell you nice people about it either. Nobody ever sees me with the reactor shielding totally down. I don’t want my radiation to hurt people, or scare them away, or make them decide I am way too much trouble to handle.

I have a serious, deep down, and not altogether irrational fear that direct contact with my hungering darkness can do serious damage to healthy people. Especially if expressed in words, face to face. Then it’s powered by my gift for self-expression, my high emotive power, and the worlds of hurt I keep locked up deep inside.

Maybe that’s not rational. Maybe I could expose people to my darkness and they would be perfectly okay, no harm done. Maybe the notion that all that cold I keep inside would freeze people to death if I exposed them to it is just another ghost posted at the door to greater mental health by my depression, there to scare me away from the road to my depression’s destruction.

It can be so hard to tell sometimes.

But one of the other things that came up today is my inability to do things I know will hurt people, no matter how beneficial to myself the action may be.

That sounds good on paper. And in a healthy, balanced individual, it’s probably good in practice, too.

But for me, it leads to things like not telling your doctor about something because you don’t want to upset him. And that’s just plain crazy, right off the bat.

The problem is, I am so sensitive that it’s like those people who pump up the gain on a microphone and hear ghosts. If your instrument is too sensitive, it amplifies things all out of proportion to what they really are.

And you start hearing things that aren’t there. Like imagining people will be brutally hurt by things they would actually barely notice and shrug off like The Hulk shrugging off a bazooka blast.

The more I try to sort this stuff out, the more I understand what the Care Bears meant when they said “Be true to who you are, and whatever the fuck happens, happens. ”

I might be paraphrasing.

Oh, and here’s yesterday’s crappy video.

Getting better, tho.