Truth be told. I should have written this last night, amidst one of the most intense feelings of dread and hopelessness. If we're being totally honest, though, I was in no shape to be doing anything last night.
I can't describe it, but I've been feeling overwhelmed as of late with feelings of dire hopelessness. I'm lost. I am truly lost. A castaway in a sea of possibility, yet I feel like I'm a million miles away. I feel like I'm on an edge, afraid to look down. Like I'm being needled forward, inch by inch, to ultimately fall into a pit of obscurity.
My mom recently told me that when she dies, she doesn't want a funeral. Despite having so many friends, she believes no one would show up for her funeral. This saddened me. In part, because my mom feels this way and selfishly, perhaps, I think if she feels this way with all the friends she has, then no one's going to attend my funeral. It's not that I don't have friends, but these days they seem more like acquaintances than definitive friends. I mean, my phone's not ringing off it's hook.
Last night, I watched a documentary on Robin Williams. For years, I found myself unable to forgive Williams for ending his own life by suicide. There was no booze of drugs in his system, other than his prescription drugs, so his decision, by all accounts, was lucid, which makes the act even more sad.
Selfishly, I never truly understood his life. What was going on in that brain of his. Outside of all the crazy antics, I could see the shell of the man inside. That the zaniness he displayed on the stage, never truly reflected the man he was inside. In the documentary, Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind, the late comedian was often described as quiet whenever he was home, away from the glitz and glamour of show biz. I think that was when Robin was truly himself, but speaking from my own experience, this isn't always a good thing. If I'm out and about, I rarely think about myself or what's going on in my own shitty life. It's when I'm home, alone, with my thoughts, that all hope escapes me and I feel truly lost. No amount of TV, music or movies, what I used to rely on for escape, now leaves me feeling dejected.
Turns out that in addition to anxiety and depression, the late Oscar winner, was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson's Disease, as well as Lewy Body Dementia, which is believed to be a major contributor to his suicide. Selfishly, given my thought processes as of late, I understand now, why the man felt suicide was his only choice, despite having such a strong base to lean on. Last night, reliving some of those happy memories of Robin, I found myself forgiving him for exiting stage left.
I should have written this last night, when my mind was swimming in despondency. With my cat, nestled up tightly against me, I still felt alone. Feelings of dread and impending doom. I can't explain why I'm feeling this way and I think my cat is feeling it too. He knows something is afoot with his daddy, but doesn't know how to bring me out of this funk.
Depression is nothing new for me. I've suffered Seasonal Depression for years. It's only recently that I had discovered that cannabis can combat those dark feelings and the Seasonal Depression that threatened my very livelihood for the better part of my life, had gone by the wayside. For the first time in literally decades, I was smiling and laughing my way through those darkened months sprawling from late-October to mid-April / early-May. That is, until this year. As much as I detested working at that RV company, being fired for absolutely no reason, really shook me. I didn't mind being off of work for the winter, as I have a real phobia about snow and ice, but to be cast away, like vermin for no justifiable reason, simply blew my mind. Maybe that's what blew the gasket to my sanity.
I'm in constant pain. My ankles hurt SO much, that it often brings me to tears. My hands are the same way. A handful of times (pardon the pun), I've awoken abruptly as my hands, usually the right hand, my dominant hand, is cramping up into a ball. The pain in unequal to anything I've ever experienced, and considering I've broken my back and squashed my brain, both immensely painful experiences, the pain I feel in my hands and ankles, rival those pain levels, if not more. As a result, I've been relying on the cannabis for pain relief, as well. I've gone to my physician on the matter. She ran a series of blood tests and has informed me that I do not have arthritis. When asked why everything hurts, she has no solution. Only that I should stretch before bed. Sorry doctor, but what the fuck?!?
These days, my ankles hurt 24/7. Not a moment goes by where my feet don't hurt. My hands hurt, but usually only when I grab something. If I grab a jug of milk from the fridge, my right hand immediately cramps up. My knees hurt. My hips both hurt now, although the left is still worse, by far. My back hurts, as does my neck and my fucking migraines have returned, although still not at the frequency they once did. The only thing relatively good is my blood sugars. Small victories?
I am without work. For the past half decade, I haven't been working throughout the winter months. At first it was because of my TBI, a traumatic brain injury that I'd gotten when I slipped on a patch of ice at work, knocking myself out for close to a half hour, which was the beginning of a life altered. I've managed fairly well, I believe, to come out the other side of that accident, with only damage to my short-term and long-term memory. The long-term comes back in spurts. I'll see or hear or smell something that triggers a memory and no matter how miniscule it may be, I celebrate it. My short-term memory is an ongoing problem. It may have been a contributor to loss of employment from the RV job, as the morning of my dismissal, I found myself wandering around the parking lot, struggling to remember how to do the next task of my job. I recall almost collapsing in tears. Everyone is quick to dismiss these struggles as "getting old", but those people fail to see the scenario from my side of the proverbial fence. I've always prided myself on my memory. I was always able to remember even the most finite bits of information, but these days I can stop abruptly in the middle of a task being performed and not have a single clue as to what I am doing, nor why I'm doing it. This is not a factor of getting old. This is a real fucking problem.
I am without work. I want to have something to do. To have a purpose. I want to have a job with the city. To work in the park system, ideally, but I have my name in with some other departments, too. The downside to this is, I know the city will likely demand a drug test prior to any employment, so it will be discovered that I have THC in my bloodstream. I don't smoke in the morning or during the day, despite how painful my ankles get. I smoke only in the evenings. To help with pain management, depression, anxiety and to help me sleep. However, in my research of the plant, I discovered that daily use, means the THC that is in the cannabis, stays in a person's system for a very long time. I know not what the city's policy is on cannabis, since it's legalization. The philosophy of many companies and people, even, casts a dark shadow on the misunderstood substance. It's absurd. A person could be a fall down drunk and it's acceptable, but if a person lights up a doobie, suddenly they're a liability and a menace. Part of me thinks I should speak with my physician about it, but I've attempted to broach the subject with her many years ago.
A friend of mine, years ago, alerted me to acquiring a Medicinal Marijuana prescription. They were using it to combat anxiety and other ailments. I knew from my own experimentation, that cannabis helped me with my own battles with anxiety and depression. It even helped my asthma, remarkably enough. So I broached the idea with my doctor. I had always seen my doctor as a forward thinking, try-anything kind of physician. Hell, she's one of the top doctors in the city. I'm often commended by other physicians for being so lucky as to have her as my personal physician. So when I brought up the idea of getting a prescription for cannabis, the idea was shot down immediately and with extreme prejudice. My doctor was not going to have any of that, citing that marijuana is a "gateway drug". That is horse shit. It's my own personal belief that if someone is going to try a hard drug like cocaine or worse, then they were going to do it anyway. They didn't need an introduction to it by Mary Jane.
I wish I had a rock. Someone to bounce ideas off of. Not someone to solve my problems, but who'll be there for me. To listen to me. To hear me. To... I don't know.
My friend's kid found love on the interwebs. He is or was a closed off individual. I worked with him, side-by-side, and it was difficult to bring him out of his shell to even say hi, but somehow he found love on the interwebs. Perhaps I should do this? Nah. I'm too broken. Physically. Another contributor to my sorrow, me thinks.
I should have written this, last night. My head racing with thoughts and disparity. These days. I am truly lost. I don't know where to go. What I should do. I just want to curl up in a ball and disappear.
My cat, Monkey, is twelve years old. I pray that he lives to be thirty, because the idea of living in this house without his fuzzy little face staring up at me, is unbearable. I broke down into full on tears, last week, thinking about him, my cat, being in his twilight years. My mom, who I've been spending a lot of time with, is seventy-five and talking about when she dies. When they're both gone, I'm going to be truly alone. No one to care the least about me. It was the first time in a very long time where I thought suicide was a legitimate choice. That without these two pivotal components of my life, I couldn't possibly move on. This coupled with the fact that I'm susceptible to getting dementia or Alzheimer's Disease because of my multiple concussions. I've had at least fifteen, to the best of my knowledge, if not more. Three of which were fatal enough to knock me out and cause permanent damage. My future looks bleak. Bleak and alone.
There's no danger of my taking my life. Not anytime soon, but when these loved ones make their exit... I'm not a religious person, by any means, but I hope that whatever powers that be, can deliver me through what will likely be the darkest patch of my life.
I was thinking the other day. Counting how many Christmas' I had left in my life. How many more birthday's. I don't have that many. More than what can be counted on both hands, but less than the amount including my toes.
My feet hurt SO much, right now and I feel fucking helpless.
I should have written this last night. I may have had a way to end this thought process. To wrap it up with a neatly tied bow. Maybe even talk myself into a solution. A glimmer of hope. End on a positive note, but I can't. It's not in me. It's nowhere to be found. And will it matter? Will anyone even read this? Probably not. Nobody gives a shit. People just interject enough on social media to pat themselves on the back with the belief that they contributed. That they cared, but... My phone isn't ringing off the hook.
I'm surrounded by so many people, but I've never felt more alone. 😔
