"If fate doesn’t make you laugh, then you just don’t get the joke.”

I don't think I get the joke.

Above quote is from a fascinating book I read a while back - Shantaram. It struck me as an interesting view on life events. First of all, I regularly ponder the existence of "fate" and second of all, when it seems to appear in my life (despite whatever name I may give it) it rarely feels funny. Not "haha" funny, perhaps more "cruel joke" funny.

Last night I find myself at a party with a good friend - surrounded by nobody else I know. Yes, a nightmare for one who lives with anxiety. Luckily, I have an amazingly supportive friend (many, actually) who helped me feel comfortable and had no problem with the idea that I may tap out and leave at any moment. I knew about this party for about two weeks, and told myself that I would probably end up backing out last minute, and that was okay. After all, I back out last minute on most things these days. Then, I didn't! I didn't back out, I sucked it up and went. Two reasons were behind my decision - one, I wanted to see my friend badly. Two, I have been *craving* human experience. Day in day out it's all safe and staying safe and seeking safety. Safe can be okay, until you realize you're missing out on some of the best things in the world: human experience with other humans. Socializing. Meeting new people. Having NEW conversations.

As soon as I had given up on meeting someone interesting, single, age-appropriate, hot... did I mention interesting?... I did. Last night, fate, or luck, or random circumstance struck, and I have once again been reinstated with a feeling that there are still people out there in this small town who I haven't yet MET. And all I could think today was: what if I hadn't gone? What have I been missing all these times I've stayed home. Stayed safe.

Needless to say, as the high of the evening wore off (and after a hug that turned my knees to jelly and made my tongue tingle), I realized that other people probably experience this feeling far more often than I, and that I shouldn't put too much weight on the experience. That's when the old habits began to kick in for me. All those thoughts reminding me that the chances of someone feeling a spark with me when I feel a spark with him is minimal. The chances that another person is ready to be in some form of relationship or mutual dating experience when I am is minimal. The chances that if we were to get to know each other that we would both have strong feelings for each other is minimal. The negative thinking takes over, swirls around, and reminds me that mutual love, admiration and respect happens so rarely, and can be so fleeting, that it's no wonder we reel in shock and terror when we feel "it" - the momentary zap of connection, attraction - whether it be physical or intellectual. Oh, what a feeling of vulnerability! The hovering possibility of rejection surrounding the unshakeable inkling of hope.

I've spent so long in safety, I forget what risk looks like.

xo-PS

On a side note - the light burnt out on my rotating ocean picture lamp. I forget how to fall aslepp without it.

I like the nightlife, and I do in fact like to boogie.

Two posts in one day! My goodness. Well, the last one covered today, but not last night, so I feel the need to purge a little more.

For the record, I'm currently in pyjamas, one drink in, newly painted nails that I'm trying not to chip as I type. I haven't painted my nails since I had my falsies removed in August, and I came across an old picture where I thought "hmm, I really liked that colour." Turns out, it's the only colour I own, but I did three coats and now I'm waiting the obligatory 45 minutes before I can actually touch anything. Apparently my nails are now "Royal Rajah Ruby". I think it looks more like "blood clot red" but I guess that's not as glamorous.

Countdown three weeks until I'm off medical EI, and therefore the pressure for employment has begun. I have thought about this... a lot. What else do I have to do, really. I thought about my past years of employment, from the age of 17 to present. This is the first time since I got my first job straight out of high school that I have been literally - unemployed. No workplace to speak for. It's been scary and liberating, and I'm attempting to see the positive in all of this.

I have sent a few resumes in. One for a casual position that relates to my BSW, and two that do not relate to my degree. No response on all accounts.

I've been thinking a lot about what I want from my life, both short and long term. Sometimes I read over some of my blog entries to take a look at what things I've valued, what times have been good for me, what times haven't. I've been thinking a lot about what I need to both pay my bills but keep me well.

Last night I took a trip to the old night club where I used to work. It has since then changed names and (some) staff. I spent four solid years of my life there, working full time for most of it, part time while I was in school. If those walls could talk, the stories they would tell. I fell in love in that bar. I danced my heart out, drank too much, made so many connections with so many good people. I felt free to express myself through fashion, and I was a very, very good waitress. That being said, I also had my heart broken. I watched my lovers betray me, I had recent exes parade their new and prettier girls past me while I had to stay composed and serve. I sobbed in the arms of my manager in the office, too many times to count. It was the first place I went when broke up with my fiance, searching out my friend and crying into his coat in full view of the people I served. I dragged abusive men out by their collars and kicked one of them out the door in the back with my knee-high boots. I worked all night and went home in time to get my mother up and feed her breakfast, two hours after falling asleep in my clothes on the couch, make-up smudged all over my face.

Last night I met up with the owner of the bar and asked him if he would consider hiring me for... well, whatever they need - part time, on call, what have you. I specifically requested work as a waitress, because (while I was thoroughly trained and experienced on the bar) I never really felt at home except for when I had a tray in my hand.

I never thought I would ask for bar work again. I never thought I would sit here, worrying that I wouldn't be able to get work after requesting it, because I never thought I'd care enough to apply for a job that I spent studying my way out of. But here's the thing.

I need time off. I need time away from the clinical atmosphere of my last job. I want to spend a bit of time (before going back, because I plan on it) working at night and sleeping in the mornings when I'm most haunted by depression. I want to do my hair crazy, paint my nails, dress up and ask 200 people what they would like to drink. I want to know that when I walk out the door at the end of the night, that nobody's treatment referral is waiting on my desk. That I haven't just submitted a suicide risk assessment report and gone home wondering if there's going to be a voicemail for me at work the next day saying that the person in fact succeeded. And I am ashamed to admit ALL of that. Really... ashamed.

The whole reason I put myself through school is because I wanted to know that what I did, by my standards, was supporting change. Big or small. What I have come to realize, however, is that the only way I can be there to support or facilitate that change is by knowing who I am, what I want, and how to take care of myself. Maybe every once in a while, I'll have to take off a year. Dress up, serve drinks, socialize. So why do I feel so badly recognizing that it's what I may need? I fell like in admitting all this, my vanity (is it vanity, or sanity?) comes before the well-being of my community.

Food for thought for me, anyways.

Goodnight,
PS

Can't I just cut out the middle man and mainline the endorphines?

Today has been the first day in a long time that I have decided to stay in and be lazy, but not as a by-product of depression. Well, not originally. As the sun begins to lower in the sky, that raw, sinking feeling has begun, and I've realized that it is quite possibly impossible for me to avoid feelings of deep depression when I spend the day alone. It's just not a good thing in the end. This is unfortunate, because I really do value my time alone.

One of the reasons I decided to make today a "me" day was because last night I parked my car at Dad's, knowing that I had nothing planned for today. Normally, throughout the day I would move my car around town to access free two-hour zone parking. Not having to do this is a luxury. Second reason I designated today as a "me" day is because, as aformentioned - no plans. Thirdly, I am incapable of moving without pain, so I figured I might as well take advantage of my immobility and sloth-it-up.

I have been dancing more lately, in anticipation of two upcoming competitions in February, and two in March. Competition season snuck up on me immediately after Christmas break (two weeks of no dancing) and I reminded myself that if I commit to a competition, it's only worth going if I'm going to make my best effort to succeed. This means effort, and effort means pain.

I know, I know, all dancers, runners, swimmers, and so on, go through basic pain. It's all a part of the process. After all, what is that slogan? No pain, no gain? Since I've begun kicking it into high gear, so to speak, I'm reminded of the fact that, well, I'm not so young and resilient any more. People older than me are guffawing, but to try and make it more understandable - competitive Highland Dancing is similar to girl's gymnastics - there's a reason you see no one over 24 doing it publicly. It's hard on the body. Harder than most adult-oriented sports. I had a sports medicine doctor (who was the official doctor for the Canadian figure skating team) who told me that my feet and ankles reminded her of a ballerina's and figure skater's combined (skaters are notorious for having ankle injuries, and ballerinas, well, we've seen pictures of their feet. If you haven't, be sure to do so on an empty stomach). For the record, I was 15 when the physio told me this.

Sunday, I performed for a Robbie Burns function, which was super fun, but there wasn't enough time for me to warm up which (again) is the difference between a 30 year old body and that of someone who's 15. Not warming up is a very bad idea. Vurry Vurry bad. Then Monday and Tuesday I had vigorous lessons. I love it when my dance teacher pushes us almost beyond ability, because I feel like I'm getting my lesson-worth. If I wanted moderate exercise without too much challenge, I'd go to aerobics (for the record, I used to, but quit because it was too boring and easy). Today is my day off dance, and then I'm back at it tomorrow. Why do I do it? Because dancing is my favourite drug. The *only* time I don't feel depressed is when I'm dancing. The only time. I can't get enough of it, and I would do it for hours a day if my body would allow.

Unfortunately, these days, every time I land to the beat of the music on the ball of one foot, I swear my spine is compressing to the point where I'm going to lose an inch in height per month. This morning was the second in a row I had to rely on Advil to get out of bed, and for the record, I am usually very good at tolerating pain without pain killers.

Hence the lazy day. Lazy doesn't necessarily mean unproductive, as I believe I'm incapable of going a day without doing something. Currently I have my laundry going, and I'm 3/4 of the way through a book I started this morning. My dog has gone for two walks, and I've showered and washed my hair. After a long mid-morning nap, I decided that I wasn't going to be in any less pain unless I bit the bullet and moved around. I strapped on my running shoes and went for an hour long jog and power walk, stretching my seizing arches and achilles along the way. It seemed to do the job - I felt a little less rickety, and my mood had significantly elevated after all that fresh sea air and cardio.

Over the past few days, I've come to a few realizations. One is that I can probably keep my mood in check easier if I get some form of hard exercise every day. Something about those endorphins - I can't get enough. The other is that I'm going to have to invest in a large bottle of advil.

So here I am, feeling good about the choices and actions of my day, and perfectly happy doing them by myself. Why then, do I feel so lonely and down? This is why I wish I could bottle those exercise endorphins - I come off of them and feel hungover from the high - wanting more, but too tired and hurting to be able to go back to it... yet. I wish that I could find happiness and satisfaction in all the things I used to, like reading, and knitting, and taking my dog out and yes, even doing things like laundry! I'm quickly realizing, however, that I'm craving an extreme escape from life, all day long, and it can only be found in going all-out. I need to be going 100 mph, because anything else is too slow. After all, then I may have to pause and think.

Hobbling down the stairs to switch my laundry,

PS

Woah, who drugged me? Wait. Yup - that was me.

Welcome, my friends, to 'lack of motivation station'. 'Motivation station' rolls of the tongue a little sweeter, but I'm incapable of getting there.

I've certainly noticed fluctuations in patterns and habits for me since I've been off work (and kind of in treatment, for lack of a better term) but my treatment is complete and it's time for me to step forward again. The problem is, I don't really feel... better. If this is better, it's highly disappointing and not very practical for the every-day world.

More often than not, I'm falling into my all-day-in-bed habits. Though I don't know if I can call it a habit when I feel incapable of breaking it. I don't feel sad, per say, but I am completely and totally exhausted, and the littlest things feel like the biggest chores. The kicker is, some days I don't feel like this and I'm perfectly productive. While this is good, but it tends to give me false confidence - like I could do this *every* day! Then I have a day like today and I can't figure out how I'm supposed to work if I can't predict the days I can't function.

My dog had a routine vet visit this morning. We rolled out of bed at 8:30, made some coffee, had a walk, she had her breakfast. By the time 9:30 rolled around, my eyes were drooping and all I wanted to do was cancel the appointment and crawl back into bed. I had taken an ativan at about 4:00 am after a few particularly anxiety-provoking nightmares, and for some reason I think the ativan hit me a little harder than usual. I have a hard time being able to tell the difference between low anxiety (drugged on ativan) and high depression. My hand was on the phone to cancel, but I stopped myself. Any other situation I would have cancelled, but the dog-Mum in me could not justify cancelling an appointment for my fur child because I was depressed. There's no child protective services for pups, but I don't want to feel like if there were, I would be on the list. So we drove to the vet (me in my pyjamas - I may not be an unfit dog-Mum, but I sure as hell wasn't washing my face or brushing my hair.) All went well, and we drove back, me yawning all the way, desperate to go back to bed.

Fast forward until now. It's 2:00, and I just got out of bed to move my car. Now I am fighting, tooth and nail, the urge to return. Needless to say, the ativan has worn off, but the drowsiness and inability to focus is still there. I couldn't get over my demeanor at the vet - completely and totally out to lunch. The vet was talking to me, but for the life of me I couldn't hang on to what she was saying. I had to re-book for a follow-up shot for a month from now, but I couldn't even organize that in my brain, and had to leave saying I would call this week to book.

Writing helps a bit. It helps me feel like I have clarity going on somewhere in my noggin, though if you approached me on the street, I'd probably just give one word answers and stare off into space. And, of course, yawn. Constantly.

So here I sit, still unable to start my day. I have people I want to write to, knitting I want to do, household chores I *could* do, books I want to read, walks I want to take. All I can think of right now, though, is that I NEED to go back to bed and sleep this feeling away. It is, my friends, the ultimate in escapism. It is my own way of self-medicating, and though it's hard to argue that sleep is bad for you, it feels as though it is in this case.

Good afternoon, and good night,

PS

I wuv you, magical food machine!

Okay, so this is a blog about mental health, but sometimes I really neeed to put those issues aside, take a deep breath, and laugh at my dog.

First of all, this story does not go without credit. My best friends recently got an automatic feeder for their cat, who would harass them for food at all hours, and they too have hilarious stories about the cat's reactions to the new magical food dispenser.

So thus began my logic. My biggest battle with my dog is always around food. She is a pug. Most dogs don't have that "off" switch when they've had too much food, so they will continue to gorge if the food is all accessible. My dog doesn't just not have the "off" switch, she is full on *obsessed* about food. It makes her world go around, my friends. First of all, needless to say, she is on diet food. Otherwise she would be as big as a house. For years, I believe that to her, I have been labelled as the "food dispenser". Sure, I give her love and cuddles, but above all else, I give her FOOD. And for that, she loves me. Being the food dispenser is a tiresome and thankless job, and I was ready to give it up.

What if I didn't give her food? Would she still spend hours a day yelling at me, asking for me to drop a few more kibbles in her bowl? I figured, if she stops relating me to the hand that feeds, she will stop making my life hell six hours out of a day, bouncing around like an energizer bunny (with sound effects) and doing so until I feed her.

Yesterday was the holy day. The day that the magical food dispenser came to live at our house. I feel that it may go down in my dog's memory as something akin to the rebirth of Christ... the day the big bulbous machine came into her life and dispensed kibble at pre-programmed times. The wonderful, warm, plastic dispenser of food.

I would love to say it was smooth sailing, but there were a few glitches regarding... "the transition".

I programmed the machine to dispense a half cup at 9:00 am (breakfast), a quarter cup at 5:00 pm (dinner, and prime feeding time) and then another quarter cup at 8:00 pm (bedtime snack). Impatiently, my dog and I sat perched in front of the machine, tails wiggling, waiting to see what would happen at five pm (the first programmed feeding time). The clock chimed, the machine whirred, and "tick-a-tick-a-tick." Out came four kibbles. Dora snatched them up and swallowed them down in one gulp, and then resumed her usual activity - yell at Mummy till more food shows up. Frustrated, I started to dismantle the machine to figure out why the little rotors weren't working as the should. This, of course, resulted in me accidentally dumping 10 lbs of food on the floor.

This moment will now go down as the day that Dora's birthday, Christmas, and Halloween all culminated in one, spectacular moment of dream-fulfillment. Pug Mardis Gras.

I stuffed her in her kennel and began cleaning up the mess.

Long story short, after accidentally dumping the unit TWICE, and programming the dinner function over and over to measure how much came out, I finally had a working unit. Of course, throughout this half hour, my dog was having a cornonary whilst throwing herself against the side of her kennel.

This morning, I am proud to say, was the first successful feeding. I was sitting with my coffee on the couch, trying to ignore my dog as she danced around me yelling and whining, as I stared drowsily at the computer clock... praying for it to hit 9:00. Sure enough, "whir whir whir... tick-a-tick-a-tick." Dora didn't clue in to the noise trigger, so I had to point her to the bowl from the couch and ask her what was going on. She ran over there, a voila! Magical food dispenser made all her breakfast dreams come true!

It's only been a day, so we're still getting used to the drastic shift in responsibility. Dora dances around, barking at me, while I look at the machine and shrug. It's out of my hands, my little chicken. Time to take it up with the machine.

Mark my words - after a week, I believe Dora will be found sleeping with her body wrapped around magical food dispenser, waiting for the reward to appear. I, however, will be sleeping soundly in bed, having dodged a dog's lifetime of responsibility.

Shedding my duties one day at a time...

PS

But... it hurts so good!

I was going to start writing about my relationship history, and somehow I started thinking about the concept of pain. That should be some kind of an indicator, me thinks.

The first psychiatric evaluation I underwent was about two years ago. It was all right - a nice understanding man, who had just enough quirks to come off as endearing. He took off his shoes upon arrival (something I have done as a counsellor - along with sitting cross legged) and he dimmed the lights because, well, he just found them to be too abrasive. I liked him immediately. He ended up diagnosing me as bipolar, which was quite incorrect, actually - and I knew that from the get go. Luckily, since then the diagnosis has been changed to: major depressive disorder, panic disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. Or as I like to call them - The Holy Trinity of mental illness. Anyhoo - not bipolar. Why? Not manic.

Where was I going with this. Ahh yes - included in my psych evaluation was a request for me to explain my body modifications - my piercings and tattoos. I, naively, answered immediately, wondering what kind of stupid question was that... I did it because I love the way it looks. Why else would I have pictures inked permanently onto my body? Turns out he was trying to steer me in another direction. I'm a girl who loves the PAIN.

For the record? Not true. No judgement to those who do. Pain is what I put up with to get to the pretty ending. With both piercings and tattoos. It got me thinking. Well, first it got me thinking about the stigma attached to body modification, and the generalization that a) I like pain and b) I'm actually good with pain. I think I'm good with pain now, but only after a lot of practice.

Interesting side note - since starting meds, I have begun fainting or getting-close-to in some of the most basic situations that I've always been able to handle. The last time I had my blood tested, I passed out and had a HUGE anxiety attack in the lab. They eventually had to carry me downstairs to the clinic, where I lay shaking and crying on a table. I had no one with me, because - when have I ever had a problem getting blood taken?? Soon after, I had my arm worked on and when the artist moved to my elbow, I had to get him to stop because I knew I was going to faint. For the record, I felt like such a poser.

Then I began to cut. I know, a girl who begins fainting while having her blood taken should probably not cut. But to me it was different - surface only, none of the veins involved. I tried it and I was hooked - best way to get my mind off my anxiety, my sadness. It wasn't about the pain, it was more about the control over a body. Perhaps much like someone who is anorexic may feel - no longer about the weight, but about being able to say "hey! I have no control over my depression or anxiety, but this I can do to my body because it's MINE." So I became the cliched depressed cutter - something which I have never admitted to anyone beyond my sex partners, and them only because I had to explain the scars. I felt ashamed - cutting felt like such a "teenage" thing to do. Glorified by emo kids who slash up and down their wrists with a sawed off safety razor. Perhaps I am trying to justify it, but to me - people who cut for their pain don't show it off to the world around them. They avoid the arms.

I truly believe that from these tales, it's been well-established that I'm not a massochist. I don't get off on pain, and I put up with it only as a means to an end - some form of reward.

Then... there is emotional massochism.

This is where the blog post was going to begin, but I got all caught up in the physical side of pain and went off on a tangent. So much so, that I can't even remember where I was going with this.

I have a crush, on a man, who is good. He's kind, funny, respectful. He challenges me - he is completely unavailable. Which in my mind is pretty much common sense, because he IS so kind, funny, respectful, and so on. The reason this is coming up is because I look at people like him, and automatically presume that he would not go for the likes of me. Around him is one of the few times in my life that I feel a little too, oh, I don't know, freaky deeky. Not because he makes me feel that way, but because I put that upon myself. I put myself down, presuming I'm too fucked up for the relatively well-adjusted likes of him.

This was a big realization for me! Where did this come from, and how has it affected my dating past? First of all, there are obviously exceptions to all rules. I have dated a few kind, respectful men in my past. And they have cared for me despite my occassional... oddness. Perhaps more so because of it. That, however, has sometimes made me wary, because I feel like they're looking at this picture of coolness (based on my appearance, facade, what have you) and then they kinda realize that the girl isn't as pretty and fun as the picture. That has happened in the past, and it has resulted in them cheating. The shine wears off eventually. Then there's the men who I feel I deserve to date, who treat me like shit. They're edgy, fucked up, totally non-committal. What more could a girl ask for? Needless to say, those relationships have ended in utter and true heartbreak - always on my end, and always lasting. To the point where I feel like they actually left with a piece of me that I will never, ever, be able to regain. Yeah. Fuck them for that.

After a lot of work on myself, I've begun to open my eyes to the possibilities. The idea that I deserve someone who is not only kind, respectful, loving, but also funny, a little bit edgy, and a little bit crazy. It's the happy medium, and at this point, I still only see it as a faint possibility. I can only hope that one day I will have a huge crush on a man and NOT think to myself... "There's no way he would want to be with me."

Dreaming of change, cuddling the pug,

xo-PS

So I hold this thing... just like my dog, right?

Babies.

Okay, raise your hand if you're a woman and your ovaries just ached a little.

First of all, I would like to make a toast to the good friends in my life who are raising children. I have amazing friends, and they pick amazing partners. Needless to say, their kids are... awesome. Seriously awesome. Perhaps I'm biased, but I love them. Beautiful, well-behaved, intelligent, but to me - mysterious little creatures. I like it that way, though. I hold my dance teacher's baby and realize that it's pretty much impossible to be in a bad mood when you have a wide-eyed little thing suckling your pinky finger. I remember at the last dance competition, all my nervousness melted away when I got to hang on to her little one for a while (praying she wouldn't spit up on my velvet). I respect the people in my life who have decided to have and raise children, and I want to say thank-you for letting me hold them, even though I have no idea what I'm doing.

No one in my family has, or has had, babies. Give them a few years - both my cousins are probably on the road. But at this moment, I'm 31, and no babies in the family. I remember when my close childhood friend who we vacation with first handed me her... almost one year old? We laugh when we see comedies where people don't know how to hold a baby (usually men) but seriously. It doesn't just come naturally. I just tried to remember something my mother (bless her) told me many years ago. Women have strong, larger hips because that's where we prop the babies. My mother was in no way archaic, and rarely spoke about these things. She just said it matter-of-fact. As in - if you ever hold a baby, prop the kid on your hip and you're good to go. It actually works! My mother, however, didn't tell me what to do when said hungry baby starts grabbing at your non-existent (and milkless) boobs, but that's another story.

I've heard from newer mothers that when they hear a baby cry, even if on the television, their breasts start leaking milk. To this I think - biology... what a fricking TRIP.

This is all coming to me because of two things. One, a close (but now distant - we haven't spoken lately) friend is pregnant with her second, and I couldn't be happier. Why? Because if there's anyone in this world who can raise beautiful, respectful children, it's her and her hubby. I like to hear stories about really good people having babies. It gives me hope.

So two. I watched a television show today about a couple who adopt a 12 year-old. And I cried. I mean, I WEPT. It was then that I realized something I've known and said, but never really understood. I don't have a ticking clock in my ovaries. I don't want to have a baby, birth a baby, raise a baby. I mean, I have NO desire. There isn't a single hormone in me that tweaks around little babies, though needless to say I find them fascinating and fun.

I want to foster, and/or adopt, and I want to do it with older kids. Anyone about 12 years old and up. I've always wanted this, and I always will. If I meet a partner who doesn't want to, I would be willing to compromise. If I meet a partner who wants me to have a baby with him, I'm gone. And if I meet no one, perhaps one day it will be me and a cranky, belligerent, pubescent young girl, and I would be pretty happy with that.

The thing is, I don't like my genes. This isn't an excuse - there's a lot of reasons I don't want to birth babies, but this is just one. I don't like my genes. Given all that could go on in my bloodline, between mental illness, addiction, and degenerative brain disorders, I don't believe that I need to continue that line. There are amazing children here in our very country who may want a family (even if it's a fucked up single social worker) and I would rather foster that relationship than give birth to a child and watch all of my genetic flaws, and those of my family, eat away at the child I love.

It sounds harsh, and it is. On the other hand, I plan on living my life for me, and when I have the money and stability to give someone special a home - it won't matter what age I am, or whether or not my ovaries are working. There's no pressure... she or he may or may not come to me. But if he or she does, I will be there, with open arms.

PS

Don't believe everything you dream.

I didn't ride home on the back of a giant dinosaur... or DID I?

Fun side effect of anti-anxiety/depressant meds. Funky. Ass. Dreams. For lack of a better descriptive term. I came across this idea for a post just five minutes ago, as I opened my fridge to grab my coffee cream and noticed a bag of four potatoes on the shelf. "Weird." I thought, "I was sure there were only two left in that bag." The answer was simple - last night, in my dreams, I must have dreamt about my refigerator, because I dreamt there were only two potatoes.

The odd thing (and I know it's the meds, because I never had this before) is that, in particular before the morning coffee, I would have a hard telling you if the dream was real life and this is a dream, or vice versa. Considering the extreme nature of many of my dreams/nightmares, that makes for a disturbing and restless morning.

I dream all night, vividly, and 90% of the dreams are what I would term as nightmares - in particular, my parents doing cruel and abusive things to me, or me witnessing them doing cruel and abusive things to each other. That's not even the beginning, however. I have people trying to kill me (often my parents but not always), drowning on a boat, sex partners strangling me, forgetting that I own two guinea pigs and not being able to find them to see if I have fed them any time in the past week (that's a recurring one), walking into a scene where a sniper just took out an entire street of people and realizing that they are all vivdly dead, and... as mentioned before, riding home on a dinosaur.

I know that to many people, it would seem unbelieveable for me to spend half my morning unable to determine whether or not some of these more traumatic scenes actually occured, but I do! It's scary, disturbing, and the family dreams always leave me feeling really fucked up. In particular because my mother is *always* her forty-five year old self in these dreams, so I can go almost a whole day forgetting that she has Alzheimers. That's not a fun thing to "realize" on a regular basis.

That being said, occasionally I have a crazy vivid dream that I wouldn't have had before my meds, because it just wouldn't have felt that real before. Sometimes, on those lucky nights, I'll have a flying dream. Or a really, really good sex dream with someone I will never have sex with but sure wish I could. It's like, every once in a while, my brain decides it's been a bit too mean recently and decides to give me a break, and a little reward.

Drinking my coffee and peeking outside for the dinosaurs,
PS

"I think I live you."

Well known fact. One cannot meet new people without one taking some form of risk and putting herself "out there".

Warning: "Out there" is not a pretty place to be.

So I decided that over the next month or so I will begin to reintegrate myself into society, through work and socializing. Step one - I submitted a resume. Step two - I made a profile on an internet dating site. The resume is out there and in the pile waiting to be read. Twenty-four hours after writing my profile, I'm already wanting it to remove it. I'm starting to realize that either I'm too picky (given my twenties, I HIGHLY doubt that) or there are very few men in my city who are... of my style. Oh fuck it, I'm just trying to be polite and inoffensive. There are no interesting men on internet dating sites, and if they are, they are very well hidden - possibly by terrible grammar. I have browsed for hours (what the hell else do I have to do with my day) and was shocked by how immediately I was weeding people out.

10% - pictures of bad gang lettering tattoos on their acne-scarred backs. Don't get me wrong, I love a good acne scarred back - it's the crap lettering and the fact that they seem to think that's the only picture I'm interested in, that's my problem. Show me your face, or you and your pets, whatever. Don't think that a woman is only interested in the one piece of (should be) regrettable ink you own.

80% - okay. There's a section that asks you to list your favourite books/movies/television. I ruled out 80% because none of them mentioned A SINGLE BOOK. Call me a Judgy-Mcjudgy-pants, but really??

8% - eliminated for: *terrible* grammar (I'm okay with bad grammar, but some was just downright unforgiveable), pictures that included their children (don't pimp out your cute kid just to get laid), being my ex-boyfriend (seriously.), mentioning "UFC" as a passtime, or talking about how much they love to travel. The last is, I will admit, a huge judgement, simply based on the last travel-lover I met online, fell in love with, and then was left because he... went travelling. That's all me, not you.

The last two percent. Well, there was a really lovely guy who I almost messaged until I noticed that in his profile he spoke about how much he loves his girlfriend. And then there were the two guys who messaged me.

Man 1: "Awesome tatties!!! Do u have more than the 1 on ur arm?"

Man 2: "I think I live you." ....... Did I miss that version of the David Cassidy hit?? "I think I LIVE you, so what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that there's no sure of, a LIVE there is no cure of."

Sigh. For the record, I'm sure there are single men out there who have just as many horror stories. I believe you. I'm simply telling mine, because these are my experiences.

Though I refuse to give up on internet dating so quickly, I was feeling a little discouraged and decided to take another first step - going out on a Friday night. It has been a looo-oooong time. So. I gussied up, texted a dear friend to meet up with her and another friend in a relaxed lounge atmosphere, and set out on my way. After all, I realize that I need to dip my toes in the water before diving straight in. Good place to start - drinks with close friends in a quiet joint. Bonus - the quiet joint is a five minute walk from my apartment. What could go wrong?

As I begin my walk, I notice across the street that my favourite sex-trade worker is begging for change outside of a seedy club. I had no change, but as I know she's a smoker I cross the road to give her a smoke and say hey. As I cross the road, she is accosted by two mid-twenties "dudes" and, for lack of a better term, harassed. I brush past the guys, give her a smoke, and continue on my way. The guys decide to follow me. The more rambunctious of the two, unable to get my attention (imagine that) decides to jump in front of me and get really, really, uncomfortably close. As in, touching me, and two inches from my face. I elbow him *hard* in the ribs and continue walking. He clearly decides in his cheap-draft beer haze that since the "coming on strong" routine didn't work, that he would simply follow me, trying to get my attention.

"Hey you! Sorry, man, I didn't mean to get that close, you know I just wanna..."
"Fuck you."
"Woooooah! We have a live one on our hands! Hey sweeti..."
"Fuck you."
"But I thought I could...."
"Fuck you."
"YOU HAVE A SHITTY HAIRCUT."

Well that put me in my place.

I went to the lounge, met up with my friends, and had a lovely experience. Good laughs, good company, an all around good time, and definitely worth getting out of my jammies and gussying up. That being said. I closed the door on my apartment at 11:00 and breathed a deep sigh of relief after cruising past hoards (no really, hoards) of rude, disrespectful, mysoginistic wankers in the five minute walk home.

If I want to meet new people, and if I want to go out with good friends, I need to put myself "out there". But mark my words - "out there" is not a pretty place to be.

Climbing back into my jammies with relief,
PS

A tribute to those who keep the Pyjama Smokers sane.

Hello all,

I think it's beyond time to pay a little tribute to the companions who keep us from killing ourselves (yet sometimes push us close) - our pets.

I say that in jest, but when I say that my dog saved my life, I *actually* mean it. When I first started having mental health difficulties, I lived with something called "agoraphobia". In other words, leaving my apartment would send me into a full-blown panic attack. I would drive to a grocery store (for some reason I felt safe in the car), run in and grab things off shelves like a madwoman then stand in line, feeling the panic set in. A few times I wouldn't make it - I like to call that "drop my basket and run". Sometimes I would make it out with produce, but just barely. I would walk outside, get in the car, and deal with my panic, at least knowing that I could make food for the next few days.

Interestingly enough, when I had a nervous breakdown I liked to refer to it as the time I "dropped my basket". The grocery store debacles only made that even more true to the phrase.

How did I cope? Just that. I coped. Every day was a struggle, and eventually it got easier. Needless to say, despite the bad depression, I don't miss the agoraphobic days.

One thing about having a dog, you may notice, is that they require daily bathroom breaks. This means leaving the apartment. Every day, no matter how incapable I felt, no matter how much I wanted to give up, my dog had to pee. And fuck it if I was going to let my problems affect the creature I love most in this world. That's how I began to challenge myself and my fears. Some days, when I was feeling more bold, I would go more than a block. Some days, I could only cross the road. Regardless, twice a day I had to challenge myself, because of my dog. I can't imagine what I would have done without her - probably far less and for far longer of a period of time.

It's not just the anxiety. My dog is everything to me, because she is the ultimate in unconditional love and affection. Don't get me wrong, she's a stubborn bitch and she drives me nuts. But all that is forgotten when she is being loving and adorable. This happens in particular during the night, which is when I have nightmares. The best thing about her is that when I wake up in the middle of the night, panicking and sweating, she's conked out on her puppilepsy meds (she has epilepsy) and completely pliable to me.

My favourite thing to do when I'm in bed and feeling lonely, is to pull her up beside me, bury my face in her teddy bear fur, stroke her little velvet triangle ears, and fall back asleep. She is like a security blanket, multiplied by 100 in comfort factor.

Weird aside - her ears smell like honey and her toes smell like fresh baked bread, and I can-NOT get enough of either.

Yes yes, we do have nights where she sleeps on my face, or sticks her bum in my face and silently (or not so silently) farts her way through the night. She snores like a trucker but through the years and with the help of earplugs I've begun to sleep through it. She has her lovely doggy dreams where her feet twitch and she squeak barks to the dream-dogs she's playing with (ironic, since she gets along with no dogs in real life). But you know it's love when you can write about the annoyances with endearment (or is that - ENDUREment.)

Last but not least, she puts her ego aside when she senses I am truly sad, or truly sick. Without a whine or a pout, she curls up on my hip in her favourite place, settles, and lets me cry and hold her for as long as I need. Something about her knows that sometimes I really just need her to be there for me.

There's an old alcoholic/AA saying that once you are in recovery, you keep a plant. If you can keep the plant alive, you get a pet. If you can care for the pet and the plant, you can start a relationship. I may not be able to keep plants or relationships alive, but I have nothing but confidence in my ability to give my lovely pup the best life possible. After all, she's done the same for me.

Burying my nose in my dog's toes...

PS

Being true means having to look stupid sometimes.

I re-read yesterdays post, and I felt the strong desire to delete it.

I have had this feeling before, and I've often debated this with myself. If I re-read something I've written and I don't like it, for various reasons, is it being "true" to myself and thought process to delete it? Some posts I write I just think are boring, therefore want to get rid of them so that everything I write feels witty and informative. Some are just inaccurate in the strong light of day. But what it really comes down to is that at some point I felt that way, so to delete it would be to delete a thought process that got me to where I am now. So it stays, and I put up with the discomfort of knowing it's there for people to read.

Why did I feel positive about the prospect of dating? About the possibility of me being ready? I actually have a simple answer - endorphins. I had a dance lesson last night (for the first time since the holidays) and was left feeling functional, energetic, kinda normal. I was feeling good about myself and the world.

Then I woke up. The thing that sucks about being depressed - clinically depressed - is that sometimes I get a brief reprieve, and I'm reminded of how I used to feel most of the time. That reminder is harder to swallow when I wake up feeling sad, useless, and completely unmotivated.

I got up way early this morning to go get pictures of my eyes taken. After coming home and realizing that with dilated pupils I couldn't even read, I climbed back into bed and slept the rest of the morning away. I woke up feeling lower than I've felt in months. Why? That's the kicker. No reason! Haha. These are the days that we talk about in group - because these are the days where the work I've done around myself and my mood is going to be put to the test. It's pretty easy to talk about getting myself out of a slump, it's another to do it.

So this is it. This is me doing something differently from how I used to do things. I desperately want to go back to bed and sleep away the afternoon, and that would be OKAY. I wouldn't lose any self-improvement bonus points, but I guarantee I won't wake up at 4:00 feeling any better than I do now. So I chunk my day - take little pieces of time and get through each one.

Step one - shower. Step two, make my bed and do my dishes. If you've ever lived with depression or gone through an episode of depression, you know how incredibly daunting the prospect of these tasks can be.

This is why I wanted to delete yesterday's post. I read it and felt like it was mocking me - MY words were mocking me. Who the fuck was I to think I'd be ready to be with someone else? Who would want to be with this? These are the thoughts I often think, so it's time to do that differently as well. I will not spend the day telling myself "who would want to be with you?" - I will go through the day concentrating on the things that I think I do well, the ways in which I am functioning, because even though my functioning feels small in societal terms, it feels really big to me right now.

Beginning my day after only a minor setback,

PS

Can we just skip the awkward and move to the good?

Ahh yes, it's time for "Pyjama Smoker: The Dating Edition."

It was only a matter of time before I would have to bring this one up. To be honest, I've been a little reticent to do so. It's a pretty awkward, embarassing and broad topic, but that being said - when has that ever stopped me before.

I am lonely. There is nothing dirty about that sentence (and I will keep reminding myself of that). I am SO tired of people telling me that once you can be alone and *not* be lonely, only then are you ready to be in a relationship. It's the same idea of being single long enough that you start to really embrace yourself and your social circle so that when you start dating you don't build your world around that one person. That's just something, I believe that happens with maturity. We all fell into that trap in our thirties, and my my mind, it's just no longer acceptable.

The afforementioned are all very nice ideas, generally brought up by people who think they have been there and are now in a comfortable and supportive sexual relationship and glorify the days when they were comfortably single. Indeed, they were single for a year or two, and it was so good for them to "discover" themselves and actually get "out there" and "pursue activities" and "spend more time with their girlfriends". For the record, if being in a relationship means stopping those things, I might as well now throw in the towel. There is a middle ground, and I swear, I have seen it in people close to me. Again, I think that just comes with time and age.

Being single and admitting to your friends that you're lonely is actually quite difficult to do. I'm speaking as a woman, so I'm going to say that as a woman, it's very difficult to do - I don't know about the experiences of our men-folk. There can be a lot of judgement made around that admittance (mainly my own judgement based on the internalization of social norms). This judgement, mostly by me but sometimes by others, is increased tenfold when I factor in the fact that I consider myself a strong, modern woman who doesn't need (OR WANT) to rely on a partner for things such as financial support and, to be frank, babies. I like to think of myself as a feminist, but in a very broad and updated sense of the term. Femininsm has had its high points and its low points - so admitting you're a woman and a feminist these days can open yourself up to a lot of preconceived notions based on very old principles. Same as calling yourself a social worker. But I am WAY off topic.

Okay. Where was I. I would like to be in a relationship. Wanting and being capable of are two different things. That being said, I also believe I am capable of being in a relatively healthy relationship at this point in my life. I've proven to the world (and more importantly, myself) that I can be alone, and enjoy it. Hell, if anything, liking being by myself could pose a problem in the sense that I may enjoy it TOO much. Send me out on a date or a new social situation, and 95% of the time I would rather be in bed reading.

I'm 31, which is young, but engulfed that difficult pocket of age where most people are either settled down with a partner, or are just starting to get out of the relationship of his or her twenties, often resulting in children and complicated realtionships with his or her ex. I don't want to have children, so there's no deadline on meeting someone based on the life-cycle of my ovaries. I will admit to currently having a few pretty intense crushes (how fun is it to have a "crush"? No really!) but those people are either across the country or already spoken for, if you know what I mean. I live in a very sheltered, close-knit community, meaning I've been around enough that I know most people, and vice versa. And to top it all off, let's not forget that I have pretty crippling anxiety in new social situations. That aside, I also go through pretty serious bouts of depression where I cut people out of my life. In other words, I'm a bit of a hard sell.

My aunt, who I love and adore, frequently gets drunk, calls me and asks me if I'm happy (which I always respond yes for fear of further discussion), and then begins to tell me the same story of friends who met on e-Harmony. She is convinced that this is the path for me. Needless to say, I haven't tried it. If I ever do, I'm going to call her on it and hit HER up for the monthly payments, because really... paying to read online profiles of people who I'm too anxious to meet? Not a smart investment of my meager funds.

I suppose this is the point where I come up with some great conclusion to this thought pattern. I haven't come to one, though. I suppose I could just continue to live in this relatively sheltered social-anxiety bubble for a long time and be relatively comfortable...

... but then I remember what it's like to share a GOOD first kiss, and I wonder. Maybe it would be worth the anxiety to get out there again - just for that moment. After all, whether it leads to something or not, that moment holds a lot of hope. And hope, in my mind, is vastly under-rated.

Reaching no conclusion after a less-than-engaging post (sorry, readers),

PS

Q: How do you know when you're done therapy?

A: When you have completed 8 sessions.

At least, that's the case around where we live. Oh wait - I guess I mean free therapy. And for the record, it's not just "floating around, find it on the shore of a beach" free, it's free to those whose doctors have decided the person is deserving of it, and who have been referred for it. I was lucky that way. It got me thinking.

Today, I had my eighth private counselling session, and I hit the jackpot - I get a bonus round. In other words, my counsellor is being as flexible as her workplace will allow, and is having me back in a month for a final check-in. I am so appreciative of her for doing this, because I know that she's under a lot of pressure to move me out the door and see someone new. No, really. That pressure actually exists.

I know this because that was my last job. I worked for the health authority, and whether we like it or not, they are a business, and they demand statistics and numbers. For those who work for the health authority, that means pressure to administer "short-term" therapy. In other words, therapy that is designed to work on a particular issue (such as a bout of depression, an addiction, and so on) and that can be completed in 6-8 sessions. To give the system credit, 6-8 sessions can be an effective time to treat ONE therapeutic issue, if done correctly. There are studies that have shown this, and if I was feeling more energetic, I'd dig them up.

One hiccup in this system is that not all counsellors are trained to achieve effective treatment in 6-8 sessions. Not all people are designed to see change that quickly. If the first 4 sessions are spent talking about whether or not the person wants to actually change, 6-8 sessions won't cut it. And it takes a lot of skill as a counsellor to get someone to a place of change in one (the first!) session. In other words, our system works if all counsellors and therapists are supermen and superwomen, and every person presents predictably.

For the record, if that actually happened, my job would have been dull as shit. And it sure wasn't!

Okay, second point. No system is a perfect system and like all others, ours is flawed. Sure, we live in Canada, so I will just get this out of the way: "at least your health care system is free!!" Yes yes... it is. Oh, but I pay taxes, so it's not. Which brings us to the next possible argument: "yes, but because your health system is socialized, it can be accessed equally by all!" For sure, it *could* be accessed by all. Presuming the GP who a person goes to see feels that the person (the case) is "worthy" for treatment. (Warning: sarcasm alert) But... GPs withhold all judgment, all the time. Right?

I'm lucky. I have completed 8 sessions with a compassionate, skilled counsellor. I was lucky to receive that referral. Presuming I had a one-dimensional issue for which I was accessing counselling, this would be sufficient. I didn't, but that's not to say the sessions weren't helpful and got me off to a good start, because they did. And I will run with that start, feeling grateful for the time I've had.

For some people, though, they won't have been lucky enough for their doctor to send them to the same public counselling program I went through. Why? Because many GPs still feel that if a person has a mental health concern and a substance use concern, that mental health treatment should not take place until the person has become clean and sober. Sure - rip that coping mechanism out before teaching a person how to cope. And other people may complete his or her 8 sessions, but it may not be enough, and he or she may walk away feeling... lost and alone.

It's not a perfect system. Since when, however, is that a good enough excuse?

PS

And for my next trick...!

I don't have a next trick.

Dear readers,

May I say how privileged I feel that people actually read this? No, seriously. The fact that people would find what I write interesting enough to fit into their already hectic schedules means a lot. Everything we take in is designed to be fast and easy - news posts, tweets, television commercials. The reason it's all tailored to be fast and easy on the uptake is because we all lead really fucking busy lives. People juggle jobs that barely pay rent, families, pets, friends, loved ones, illness. We are not our grandparents' generation. We do not have the same job for 25 years. We do not have the optimism that marriage is forever and that our partner will stick with us through everything. We have mutiple careers, multiple partners, and true community feels sometimes as though it's a thing of the past.

So, the idea that with all that going on, someone would be interested in reading my rants is quite inspiring and humbling.

I've been pretty flippant about mental health and addictions in my blog. I make inappropriate jokes, I try to make light of things. I tell myself that I do this because I want to destigmatize some of the scary topics out there: mental illness, addiction, suicide - I haven't begun to broach the really socially awkward subjects like, I don't know, child pornography and euthanasia. What can I say - I write about what I know.

The thing is - what DO I know? I speak about my struggles (sometimes seriously, sometimes in jest) but I can't generalize my struggles with others'. My experiences are mine - but not necessarily the experience with others who have the same diagnosis, a similar family history, the same prescription.

Perhaps it is because of the particular degree I took in university, the learning I've done on my own, the personal experiences I've had - I've felt pretty outspoken about some of the more taboo subjects that I talk about in my writing. I've never felt judged, misunderstood, or marginalized because of my experiences. My group of friends and loved ones are well-educated, tolerant, experienced. I have been lucky. As for having to work while going through mental health problems, I've been VERY lucky. After all, there isn't much marginalization of a mentally ill employee when you work in the mental health profession. Sure, it can be hard, but it's like getting MRSA when you work as a nurse - people fucking get it.

What am I trying to say? I'm starting to understand what it's like to actually be read and judged based on a diagnosis, on a medical history, and on the stories I have told. In this particular case, it was out of nothing but kindness and concern, but I think I have experienced something I've only read about and seen in proxy based on my social work (lucky me). I haven't been careful about sharing the stories I have, and for that, I have risked being defined because of them.

I won't go into details because they aren't important. In any way. I'm just going to say that what I feel tonight is probably 1/100th of what most people with mental health problems or addictions feel. And if I had felt all of that, I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror, which would be a shame, because I am human, and I am beautiful. Right now, I feel dirty, ashamed, and above all, messed up beyond belief. I initially didn't want to blog about feelings that sad and personal, but on the other hand, I've been pretty nonchalant about sharing everything else. It's just not real if I don't include the shit. And let me tell you - the shit ain't pretty.

Going to bed, but looking forward to a new day -

PS

I religiously watch Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, and Jersey Shore. Still reading?

Hello from Lotus Land.

That's just another way of saying "hello from a place where it's constantly grey and raining."

This is going to me more of a smattering of thoughts, without a set topic. Why? Because for the past two days I have done nothing significantly social or interactive, therefore my blog will consist only of random thought patterns and experiences. I tried to find a common theme, but couldn't. Well, the common theme is that I don't get out enough and January fucking sucks ass, but I couldn't find a more eloquent way of saying that.

I'm about to hit the one month mark of my medical LOA. In other words, in one month I have to have a job or I'm pretty much up poop creek without a paddle. I'm surprisingly nonchalant about the fact, as I (perhaps naively) seem to think I'm rather employable. This may have something to do with the fact that while I believe it is my destiny to work in a job which includes my social work skills, I'm also okay with fucking around for a few months until I find something I want to stick with. By fucking around, I mean working low-paying and often demeaning jobs which inevitably include the phrases "the customer is always right" and "if you have time to lean, you have time to clean." I can't tell you how many times I've passed the Pho restaurant I live above and considered submitting a resume for the position of full-time "help" they are offering. Though I'm curious as to what kind of help they demand, considering that I've never seen through the window more than four people dining. Of course, there's something to be said about working ten paces from your place of residence.

I've also considered knitting for consignment. The result of that would mean paying $20 for wool and MAYBE getting $25 for the piece on commission - without even factoring in labour. But who are we kidding. What the hell else do I have to do except knit and re-watch the entire series of House, M.D.

Speaking of House. I know, I know, there are lovers and haters of the show. I watch it for two reasons: 1) I love the medical mysteries despite the fact that I'm sure that they are far-fetched and unrealistic. Though I'm getting a bit tired of those in the sciences scoffing at the show because it's "unrealistic." I also watch Star Trek TNG, and last I heard the teleportation system has not yet been invented. Though - keep me up to date on that one, as it may be my only hope to see the world.

Oh yeah, there was a second reason for loving the show. 2) I want to, and have wanted to (since Jeeves and Wooster) fuck Hugh Laurie. Since going on SSRI's I have had a very active brain during REM sleep, so I like to feed as many stubbly, sexy, broody men into my subconscious to counter-act all the childhood shit I dream about, in hopes of having a pleasant sleep.

So yes, I watch House M.D. I also watch a LOT of other shows, most of them shit. I have no qualms about admitting this, because I am not insecure about my intelligence. Here's my view on shit television. It was created to be entertaining, and there is NO shame in being entertained by it - even in its lowest forms. Hell, the lowest forms are often tailored even more to hit that place in our brain that just wants to shut down after a long day and... disconnect. If I had children, I would obviously monitor their television intake. But as a consenting adult, I am proud to say I am up on all the latest shows and celebrity gossip. Why am I proud? Because I'm also proud to say that I am up on the more intelligent aspects of life, as well.

I read novels regularly, I've attended classes at a university (but that's just privileged book learning so some say it doesn't really count). I enjoy listening to CBC and I read multiple news sources every day. I generally start with the Globe and Mail, Guardian, and NY Times, then I move onto my celebrity gossip. No, I'm not kidding. I can tell you the latest scandals in Canadian and world politics, and I can tell you that Taylor Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal recently broke up (for reals!).

I used to feel a bit embarassed about these things. Until I graduated from university and went to work. I worked with youth, and mainly females between the ages of 12 and 19. May I just say, that while I would read all my news sources daily, the ones that benefitted my work and my relationship with my clients was NOT what I read in the Globe and Mail that morning.

Here's the deal. People who judge me for watching shit television can go ahead and do so. I don't feel the need to defend it. I'm just saying that while I enjoy a good doorstop of a book like Grapes of Wrath or Anna Karenina, and while I find it interesting (and my obligation as a politically active woman) to keep up with current events from my community to my world, I also see the benefits in watching some enjoyable crap television and reading some celebrity gossip. Sometimes you never know the power that mindless entertainment can contribute to in connecting with another person.

xoxo - Gossip Pyjama Smoker.

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, not everyone likes me.

Hello Funseekers! Welcome to today's edition: approval-seeking people-pleasers and the people who still don't like them.

I feel like there's some valuable lessons I missed as a child. One was that there's a thing called "panic attacks" and no, I'm not in fact dying. Also, piss after sex. It's just smart. Another is that no matter what I do for the rest of my life, not everyone in the world is going to like me, and that's OKAY. This is a lesson I just recently learned, and let me tell you, approval-seeking is a hard habit to break, my friends. I have spent my whole life trying not to piss a single person off for fear that they may not like me, and may I tell you: it's been exhausting! On the other hand, it's become akin to breathing for me, so I've been having to really change my ways to become a bit happier and more accepting of myself.

When I was in Grade 7, at the end of my years in elementary school, I received the Citizenship Award: for being suuuuch a gooooood girl. After that, I was addicted. I finally found something I could do well! I studied my ass off but there would still be students who put less effort in who achieved better grades. I practiced dance for hours a day but very rarely won first place - it would go to the naturally perfect dancer who rarely practiced. As for niceness, though, I was a pro. I was raised by parents who were reared in strict religous families, one of whom had been instilled with a thick dose of good old Irish Catholic guilt. I am female, which meant that I was raised understanding that good girls are generally obedient, and to boot my parents had a relationship where my father had the final say in all things parenting related.

I transfered this niceness in particular to my friends, family and boyfriends. I soon began to learn that doormats such as myself tend to attract people who like to take advantage of doormats. I was ripe for the picking and found myself in some poor relationships - both with friends and lovers. Boyfriends would tire of me and cheat, and friends would get mad at me if I wasn't available enough for them.

Luckily, I now have some strong-minded females in my life who have encouraged me to take care of myself and others, but not to sacrifice my own happiness or comfort if it wouldn't be acknowledged or appreciated. Slowly but surely, I am reinventing myself (with the odd slip and emergency phone call to a friend so I could be convinced that I wasn't the worst person in the world.)

As I begin to reinvent myself, I have learned some astonishing lessons along the way. Well, astonishing to me. One is that sometimes when you stand up for yourself, you get called some pretty mean names by some pretty self-loathing, abusive people. Only in the past few years have I been called a Bitch, and a Cunt. The latter was because I was breaking up with an abusive man who didn't like that I asked him to leave after 45 minutes of him telling me what a piece of useless shit I was. I get called a Bitch if I flip the bird to a group of men who catcall me on the street. I know - where do I get off?

Today, I was told by a tenant in my building (who shall of course, remain nameless) that I filed two noise complaints on him out of spite. Spite, you ask? Yeah, so did I. See, when I ended my fling with him and began dating someone else (please note that I did such in a particular order of informing him THEN moving on a month later) he began harassing me with texts and telling me what a terrible person I was and how I treated him like shit. He then proceded to pretend I didn't exist. As such, when I made noise complaints against him, I was obviously being spiteful. It couldn't have had anything to do with him making a lot of noise and then slamming his door in my face when I tried to confront him. But I digress.

Why am I saying all of this? Well, I told you I had learned astonishing lessons while making more of an effort to be genuine and less of an effort to be "nice". The best leasson I learned from this is that the more I respect myself and stand up for the way I feel I should be treated, the less it hurts me when someone I don't respect accuses me of being a bad person. In turn, the less I respected myself when I was younger, the more I got hurt by the people who didn't deserve my time or energy. The incident with my neighbour today made me start thinking about all of this as I realized with reckless abandon that I didn't give a shit! He can go fuck himself and I don't care! I realized how far I have come after all these years.

Now if only they taught that in Grade Five Girl's Sex Ed Class.

Signing off after another daily insight,

Cunt.

Depression can be a lonely business.

Helloooooo 2011!

Some people have dared to ask me about New Years Resolutions. Fuck resolutions - if you decide to change something in your life, do it immediately, don't wait for an arbitrary day. One of my friends commented on my smoking and noted that I clearly hadn't made "quitting smoking" a resolution. I told him no, because I wanted 2011 to be a good year. In all fairness though, yes, this may in fact be the year I quit - But today will not be the day I do so.

I had a lovely night with good friends, but had to call the party short because of a very severe headache that hit me right away. Half an hour later and about 25 minutes after everyone left - no more headache. Needless to say I'm blessed with tolerant friends. As for the headache, I'm a worrier and I won't even begin on what worries me about short and severe headaches. I blame the grapefuit I ate four hours ago. Why not? It could have been anything, why not blame the inoffensive citrus fruit.

So. New Years. New beginnings, yada yada yada. I feel like I should be writing about profound changes, lofty goals, aspirations. The truth is, since I went away for Christmas "vacation" I've been devoid of pithy, significant self-discoveries. In fact, I feel quite quiet and peaceful.

I want to take this moment to address suicide. Why? Because it's an ugly topic no one wants to address. That kinda makes me want to address it. I am not, and have never been suicidal. I don't believe I ever will be. That being said, I do not condemn people who have committed suicide, despite the pain and hurt it has caused their loved ones. I won't talk about that further, because I haven't been through that pain and it's not my story to tell.

I needed to address the topic of suicide because I started talking about feeling quiet and peaceful. Anyone who has experienced depression and suicide in a loved one or who has worked in the helping professions (such as counselling) may have picked up on the idea of a depressed person suddenly feeling peaceful as being a red flag. For those who did - I would have as well, but I assure you, this is not the case. But thank you for paying attention.

I attribute my peacefulness to a discovery that no matter what I do, I have very little control over my body. It goes against everything I believed in as a counsellor, but fuck it - I'm going there.

I caused my own depression and anxiety as much as I caused a tumour on the nerve cluster in my right clavicle. As much as I caused my chronic strep throat for four years. And as much as I have caused my left eye to quit working. My body is an extraordinary machine, but one that sometimes does what it wants. I guess I'm just... along for the ride. That being said, it's not a ride I'm planning on getting off of any time soon.

Sweet dreams to all,

xo
PS