Oh yeah. That.
Today is Therapy Thursday, and I told my therapist, Doctor Costin, all about my heart issues, upcoming (but not yet scheduled) open heart surgery, and my discomfort with the idea of having my goddamned sternum cracked.
That just seems like the sort of thing that is not supposed to happen.
But that’s true of all surgery, really.
I mean, the entire idea that someone can stab you back to health is pretty damned weird in and of itself when you think about it.
Anyhoo, Doc Costin mentioned the fact that I might not make it off the operating table, and that is something that I had not really considered yet.
This is one of those rare circumstances where being somewhat suicidal comes in handy because the idea of dying doesn’t scare me all that much.
I mean, I (mostly) don’t want to die. I want to stick around and have more fun and more time with my friends and some vague chance of actually growing up eventually.
It could happen.
But the prospect doesn’t bother me as much as it would a more healthy person. I can be fairly calm and fatalistic about it.
After all, there’s nothing I can do about it. I will either wake up after surgery or I won’t. If I do, fantastic. I will likely feel a zillion times better. They say the effect is that immediate, which makes sense when it’s something as fundamental to your being as the ol’ fuel pump itself.
And if I don’t, well, at least this shitshow of a life will finally be over and I won’t be messing up the place with my odious existence any more.
Those who love me presumably don’t see it that way. And if it hurts you to read me talking this way, I am sorry.
All I can do is keep working on getting better. And venting my darkest thoughts in this space helps me a lot.
It’s like detoxification. The more dark stuff I put onto the page, the less there is circulating in the bloodstream of my mind.
Anyhow. Doctor Costin mentioned that because I might die, I should probably start thinking about whatever it is I feel the need to tell people before it’s too late.
Might even think about writing some “If you’re reading this, it’s because I am dead” type letters, just in case.
And he has a point. There are things I want to say to people, mostly my immediate family, and to die without getting to say these things would suck.
I already lost my chance with my dad Larry.
A lot of the other things I have to say to people, like for instance former teachers, are moot points because they are long dead.
Might do me good to write the letters anyhow, though.
I will think it all over.
I will be talking with my heart surgeon, Doctor Soong (sp?), on Monday, and presumably will learn when my surgery will be at that time.
I am guessing it will be pretty soon seeing as my angiogram results were pretty dire.
I hope the recovery isn’t too gross or painful or otherwise awful.
More after the break.
I hate my stupid fucking whatever
Feeling pretty shitty right now.
Angry, restless, irritable, and so on. Yay, it’s this part of my goddamned cycle, where I get all cranky n’ shit.
Ho hum, so dumb, I’m numb, whatever.
Still doesn’t mean anything. Still doesn’t matter. Still doesn’t count.
Angry or sad or a little bit glad, I am still the same pile of excrement in a person shaped sack. Just a pointless mass of aimless intellect and wasted potential. The same magnificent machine with a broken engine and no fuel.
And I am so goddamned tired of it. I want something more. I NEED something more.
I wish I could just stop being me and go be someone else. Once again my fantasy of ghosting this life entirely rears its ugly and irresponsible head.
Just pack up what I can’t live without and head off in a random direction in search of a place I can make a new life. Some place where nobody knows me – in other words, any place that isn’t this apartment or Summerside.
Obscurity has its uses.
And once I find a place with a vibe I like – relaxed, groovy, pleasant, benevolent, and above all warm – I would start over. Hard reboot. Make up an entirely fictional past for myself. One where I am not such a waste of goddamned space.
One where I am a functional grownup. Or at least was.
One detail that has popped up in this fantasy is the idea of living somewhere obscure where the cost of living is low but still getting my current rate of disability cheque.
Could live pretty large for the same charge that way. Have a nice apartment. Get a cat or two. Maybe a big TV I can use as a monitor for my PC and play games on.
Pay someone to keep the place clean. Try to make myself part of the community. A fixture, a local character, someone everyone knows and likes.
Granted, the gay dating scene in a place like that might be mighty small, but fuck it, I only need one boyfriend.
And I rather like the idea of moving to a small town and making my place the one place where it’s okay to be gay.
The fringe benefits alone would be glorious. All those horny dudes who suddenly have a place where they can um…. express themselves.
(SFX : *poit poit*) Anywhere, where was I again?
Oh right, life stinks, I hate everything, fuck the world, rah rah rah, sis boom bah.
Jesus, even my rage bores me. Somewhere in the n-dimensional matrix of possible outcomes of which I am the center there must be a way for me to get to a better place in my life where I fit in and can function and be truly alive.
Of course, that assumes I don’t die on the operating table.
But then again, doesn’t everything?
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.