One thing I haven't been doing is writing. It's a pity. But I've been thinking about it. Maybe it's like a muscle and I need to give it a stretch. I was thinking maybe I could baby-step it out in my blog. Maybe.
A nice woman - Bonnie - posted a picture of Kami and a link to when Kami died. I read the comments and was touched. I met some wonderful people through my blog. Maybe it wasn't fair to invite y'all in to my life and then just disappear. So the question is: "where have you been?" It feels like it should more be like "where haven't I been??!!" I've been up, down and all around.
Right now I'm in Toronto and I'm doing fine, thank you- and you?
It occurred to me a few minutes ago that cigarettes are playing a part in my not writing. When I used to write stuff, you can bet that I was pausing between paragraphs to light a smoke and sit back and stare at the screen, changing a word here or a thought there. These days I spend a lot of time sitting at a table in the shaded cobblestone backyard of my brother's house. I'm reading a lot. (And smoking too much.) The inside of my brother's house is both lovely and non-smoking, as is pretty much everywhere I go these days. I was just trying to think of the last time I smoked indoors in Canada, and I really can't recall.
I went to see Tears For Fears the other weekend. While the band were very good, the Casino Rama audience was not. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the first few rows of tickets were given out as comps, and the people sitting in them had no idea who it was they were there to see. That's got to be a real drag for the band. (At a party the other night, someone told me that Toronto audiences are renown for their snobbishness and stoicism - so maybe it's just a trend.) Tears For Fears introduced the guy who had been singing along with them, a Canadian named Michael Wainwright, and announced he was about to do a duet which was no mean feat. As the notes to Woman in Chains began, I started to compose an e-mail to Roland that nice try with the guy singing, but I can do it better and I'm not busy and can come on tour with them. Then Michael Wainwright started singing and I just x'd out of the e-mail in my head. Holy crap. That link there is to the TFF show in Manila, which is how an audience should behave I think. Watch them do "Shout" in Manila. The crowd goes mental.
As for writing, I'll quote Tears For Fears,...."I find it hard to tell you 'coz I find it hard to take."
Isn't blogging strange? What's that quote? Something like "Never before have so many had so little to say." Or instead of "little" it's "meaningless?" I've shared parts of my life with all you lovelies and all you spam robots who stop by here, and now I feel obliged to update.
But how am I supposed to write about the things going on right now? How can I share here the shit I can't even bring myself to tell the people in my life because I'm sort of terrified? Like, I can't tell you I think my mom is insane and I'm pretty sure it's not a good idea for me to be seeing her. That wouldn't be nice. I shouldn't tell you that I'm not sure I want to be married. That I'm worried I made a mistake and that I can barely be responsible for my own life let alone a partner's. I shouldn't admit that here.
When people ask me how I am I always tell them I'm alright. If I responded truthfully now, though, I'd jump up and down and shout, "I don't know what to fucking DO!" How on Earth could I write about how I feel like I've got just about no family to speak of and how hopeless and useless I am at being able to do one single thing to reconcile that? I can't seem to bring myself to tell my brother and my friend (and sister-in-law) how much I love them and their two girls, and how grateful I am that they've welcomed me into their home since I've been here, but that me having to leave in a week and a half and not knowing where to go is really freaking me out. So if I can't seem to admit that to them, how can I tell you?
"When people run in circles it's a very, very mad world."
I certainly shouldn't tell you how overwhelmed I am. How I just can't look at the big pictures because I don't know what to make of this world. I would be too vulnerable if I told you I've spent many moments these past few weeks wishing myself into non-existence.
So. I'm alright. Next time you're at a concert, get the fuck up and dance.
I keep noticing the warning on my disgusting ten dollar pack of Canadian cigarettes: "Tobacco smoke hurts babies." Every time I glance at it, it annoys me. I keep on thinking "stupid babies shouldn't smoke, then." Then I get to thinking how silly it is they put the warning on the pack of smokes anyhow - it's not like these smoking babies can read yet, after all.
It reminds me that being able to understand just about everything people are saying for a change is both a blessing and a curse. People say a lot of stupid shit, eh?
There hasn't been a lot going on to report. After the hospital, I felt as completely and consistently awful as I've ever felt before in my life. I'm not all better, but it's getting better all the time. I'm starting to work on the deep brown tan of the unemployed, and often change from pajamas into my uniform of bathing suit, T-shirt, and shorts - and then I go to the pool or the beach. Tough life, huh? The weather's been sunny and mahvelous, though we've had a few hot ones. When you're living at the edge of a pool, though, it doesn't matter how hot it is, so whatever!
"No. Really look at me," the voice scolded. "Really open your eyes." I knew I hadn't done it right the first time. I'd opened my eyelids, but knew my pupils were still rolled far back, probably seeing the middle of the backside of my brain. I couldn't help it. "Aim forward and look into the flashlight he's beaming into your skull," I ordered my pupils. As I somehow figured out without ever having seen him, my doctor was extraordinary looking.
The problem had started in Korea. Listening to my husband, and following the listed rules on the American Airlines website, I loaded the maximum sized carry-on bag with the maximum amount of stuff. My friends, when they came to collect me to deliver me to the airport instantly ixnayed it as "way too big," and in a rare instance of common sense, I brought the smaller bag. We ended up having to re-pack that as carry-on, and shifted clothes and books from the other maximum two check-in bags.
Here. Did you come here having found this blog by googling "Korea" or something? Are you a visitor looking for some advice? Here's some advice,...are you thinking of going to Korea for more than five years?
That's my advice. Moving back is a pain in the ass. I have entirely too much shit! I digress, though. I realized in the Smoking Lounge at the Tokyo Airport what I'd done. One pocket in the bigger carry-on. The side pocket. In my mind, I could see the contents. Couple books. Couple pairs of glasses in cases. Drugs.
I looked in my purse. Six. I had six pills left. That wasn't how that was supposed to work. I was supposed to wean in Canada, and yet six pills meant I was going to bottom out fast. So I took the last two pills in Canada Wednesday morning and then it was cold turkey.
Sunday evening. Time passed and the door opened. More questions. Me answering as best I could for about the twentieth time since early Saturday morning. Another flashlight, but this time a fingertip prying my eye open, "Look at me," another voice commanded again. He concurred and I was officially in withdrawl - something I'd been pretty sure about for quite some time. Ha! And they stuck me to a pole and sent morphine into my veins through a pump that pushed it into my arm every four hours. I shant complain about that.
Here's something you might not have known: the last many months I'd been high. When I flew out of Korea it was after three consecutive days of taking 280mgs per day. A whole tray of 14 pills - enough for more than 2 days at the prescribed dose. I'd been doing that for months. I always went back to the doctor twice as fast as I should have. That was one accommodating Korean doctor.
I realize that fessing this up will probably get some judgment, but I don't care. I really don't. I have been thinking over the last few days how every single person has got their story. No one is alright, not all the time. I feel defenseless. Maybe there's something about spending two days writhing and puking and contorting and, oh god - my poor family - I just scared the shit out of them. But I was honest. Almost all honest.
I forget in which movie it was that one of the main characters replies, "I'm pretty fucking far from okay right now." I was just recently there - but I'm getting better. Now seems to be a time for courage. Still, I feel out of my skin. Nothing even fits me anymore.
"She just got out of the hospital," I heard my brother say to someone. I looked up to see who he was speaking to. Costco employees commenting on my attire. Yah. I was wearing pajamas. Suck it, bitches. "Check it out," I said - lifting my sleeve to reveal my multi-coloured arm, bruised entirely from the crook across from my elbow to the knuckles and covered in tape-rash I was just happy to be out. Out, out, OUT. My brother has a Toyota MR2 and it's the sexiest little car. I could ride around in it all day long. My brother has been also been suddenly embracing me and saying "I really love you, man." He said even at my worst I was curled in a ball with my head lagging backwards declaring, "I love this car, man."
I've been left alone now for the next few days. Somewhere in this house is a package that arrived while I was in the hospital. It's the rest of the drugs. I started looking for it already in high up places on the 2nd floor, telling myself that I was only trying to see if I could find it. I've since abandoned the search and am trying not to think about it. I don't want to search this house when chances are the package is in his desk drawer at work. Who knows. I'm not drug-free, the doctor gave me a prescription for Tylenol 3s for the pain. We'd been getting the bottles of pills at Costco when I appeared on "What Not To Wear. To Costco. After Detox."
You know, I was discharged and landed back in Emergency exactly three months to the day after my father died, which also happened to be Father's Day. Coincidence? Maybe. Here's something you didn't know: I didn't go to his funeral. Sunday was the first day of the last three months of what I hope will be the conclusion of The Year of Absolute Sucktitude. There's a lot of crap I haven't discussed with anyone, let alone you - but now it feels like I've got shards to pick up to try to re-assemble a life. What has been my life has exploded.
Late Thursday night I passed two Jewish men in black guiding a stretcher through the first floor hallway. The guy at the end of the stretcher was a giant albino, commenting "It's 3-West." I thought I was in an episode of Twin Peaks. Soon after I was sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette and they brought out a body bag on the stretcher, loading it into the back of a silver van before driving off. The next day I peeked out at the third floor as the elevator stopped on it. Damn. It was Pediatrics. I had hoped the smallness of the bag meant it was a withered old granny. Somewhere in the city, a family was grieving for a child as a pump ticked down measures of time into my arm. Everyone has a story; go easy on us all.
I'm not all better, but I'm trying. I'm joining the fight, which is all I can do. Now's a time to be brave, yeah?
I've been a fan of Jef for a LONG time! His video, entitled "R.O.K." really is the best one in the contest. You don't have to watch it to vote, but you really should spare a few moments and take a look - especially if you are, like me, still IN the ROK! Then, you should encourage everyone you know to vote via your e-mail and your blog. I haven't asked you for a favour in a looooong time, but for this I'll even break out a "pretty please!"
I updated my Facebook status earlier this week. Did you see that? Are you my Facebook friend? No? Why not? You should be! Let's get on that, eh?
So if you are my FB friend, or if you've read my friend John's blog, then you already know the news. John scooped the story, which is fair enough considering I've had almost two weeks to write a bloody post already. But my desire to write has just slipped away pretty much. Many many things have happened since the last time I posted. I promise to elaborate soon, I really will. But here's the short version of the most notable things that have happened in the last couple weeks:
I got married! (Big smiley face!) I got fired! (Big frowny face!)
I'll just leave those two bits of information for the time being, because I've got to go now and take care of my husband who's in a downtown hospital. He had surgery a couple days ago on his leg. He's doing alright and will be in there a few more days recovering. I just got a message that he's got a fever today. I hope he's not developing some sort of infection.
And even though I've gone through just about every major life-altering stress filled situation in the last few months, I'm doing alright. I suppose there's some truth to the saying "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I certainly hope that's true, anyways.
We got married on May 23rd. Sunday will be our two week anniversary. So far, so very very good. More to come very very soon. I totally promise.