A new record.

Awakened 6:30 pm on Wednesday.

Went to bed 12:37 am on Saturday.

Awoke 10:22 pm on Saturday.

Happy fucking 2017.

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Drifting towards oblivion.

Vaping ceaselessly, each inhaled breath taken from the mod, each exhaled breath a rolling cloud of vapour. Drinking one hard liquor after another, everything from fruit creams to amaretto to scotch. Eating heavily flavoured, rich foods, drowning my tongue in a wealth of tastes and textures. Scraping holes in my flesh with my fingernails, leaving patches and furrows of discoloured, seeping skin, yet the pain is distant through dissociation fog.

I try to oversaturate what senses still work in vain attempts to stay connected to the world, but passive suicide covers me in its gentle smother, and I find I just don’t care anymore. I know my life will be ending soon, and it will end in a quiet, dark, pathetic corner, remote enough that only I will know the true extent of my utter failure. I have no future. All the things I wanted to do were stolen by executive dysfunction and depression, with ravaged health hammering in the coffin’s final nails.

All that stops me is the tiny black and white face of my cat tucked with complete love and trust into the crook of my elbow. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. Nor do I know who would take care of her and her sister should they outlive me. For their sake, I attempt to endure, but I won’t lie: holding on is getting harder and harder. Finding things strong enough to stave off the void becomes an increasingly fruitless task. Everything becomes disposable.

One day, I’m going to slip, and I may breathe my last with my two four-footed girls curled and sleeping in my arms, tucked against my face.

One day, sooner or later.

Surface and breathe.

Things have happened.

Ten years’ worth of GST credit cheque backlog showed up in the mail recently. The sum ran into four digits. To say I was shocked to see it is something of an understatement.

Two days ago, I received a phone call from the long-term disability office. The worker on the other end of the line asked if I could go in the next day to fill out the final paperwork — not December, but now. It was during my meeting with her that I learned my application had been approved back in June, and that retroactive benefits in the form of another four-digit number would be deposited in my account next week.

I have been able to get myself all the little self-care things I couldn’t afford before, such as new clothes and shows I haven’t watched in four decades. I have been able to get the small household things and foods that most people take for granted, like tissues, dry sweeping cloths, honey, coffee, paper towels. I have been able to eat more foods than just oatmeal, rice, and bread with peanut butter and jam.

My fridge is full, and I no longer feel guilty about eating from it.

Today, despite being in shocking amounts of pain and stiffness, I can breathe a little easier.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, universe.

Backhanded blessings.

Thanks to my distressed condition, I ended up staying awake to call the long-term disability funding office to check on the status of my application, as it’s been nearly three months since I submitted the thing without a peep.

Good news: it was approved yesterday. Oh dear fucking god yes thank you.

Bad news: due to their backlog, I now have to wait another three months before I can get an appointment to see a worker and set things up.

rrrrgh.

Rollercoaster brain.

Had a really bad downswing tonight. How bad, you ask? Put it this way: I went out into the dark of night around 10:30 pm to get alcohol from the liquor store. The entire 750 mL bottle of “Trois Pistoles” is gone, drank mostly with a “dinner” that consisted solely of a can of beans in maple syrup, followed later by a few slices of toast with margarine and more maple syrup. As I type, I’m drinking from a brandy glass consisting of about 1/3 peach-flavoured vodka topped off with mango juice.

I hate my brain. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I don’t know how else to deal with it other than numbing it the fuck out. Worse, I don’t care what happens to me as a result of this.

Help.

By the fingernails.

The calendar recently flipped years for me. I spent it playing video games with long-distance friends, drinking amaretto, eating the lemon meringue pie I’d chosen for the occasion, and vaping on a new mod I bought myself as a gift. Yay, I guess.

I originally bought a small, pen-shaped device to begin vaping with, mostly in the hopes of keeping my hands busy and drinking less. It’s sort of worked.

On the other hand, the bigass bottle of amaretto I got is now half empty as of two days later, and the craving for it didn’t go away with the vaping mods. I guess this means I’m an alcoholic, and I don’t care. My gender/body dysphoria has gotten worse, as has the passive suicidal tendency, and damn but my tinnitus is loud when I’m tired. My sleep pattern hasn’t really changed since the last time I wrote on it.

Still no word on the disability application. Not so yay.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

Broken clocks.

I don’t know what’s going on with my brain of late and how worried I should be. My sleep has developed a pattern of 2:1; that is, roughly two days awake and most of one asleep. It’s disorienting, crappy, and a lot of very not fun. I may need to suck it up and arrange for sleep testing after all.

Still no word back on the application. That can’t be helping.