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.


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.


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.

Holding pattern.

Was awake a little over two days straight last week, followed by a day-long sleep from which I didn’t wake even to feed my cats, the poor things. Finally roused myself at 7 am and managed to feed them, refresh their water bowl, and clean the litter boxes — and went back to bed.

Health, what the crap.

I’m on my way home from the doctor’s office as I write this. The disability forms are filled and will be sent today by the clinic, along with the copies of my psych reports. Now I wait, hope and fret.

Please let it be enough. Please. I’m so tired.

Time, time, time, see what’s become of me.

It felt like May would never end, and yet it has.

I noticed what looked like bug bites on my arm a few weeks ago, coinciding with work on the now-empty suite across the hall. I thought at first a mosquito had gotten in, as I’d left the window open for a night or two, but found it odd since I no longer smell like food to them. One morning, as I sat up reading in bed, a very distinctive insect scuttled across the sheets.

Bedbugs. Again. You little fuckers.

The end result: several loads of boiled, roasted, bagged laundry; said bags and bins loaded with bedroom detritus piled between kitchen and living room; disassembled bed; two pest control visits two weeks apart; and me sleeping on the couch, now with a paranoid itch reflex and scars from the bites. Had to throw out all my pillows and the Devil May Cry 3 standee I’d kept from my EB Games days — I really liked that souvenir, you little shits! I’ve since put the bed back together, but nothing more. Energy, what is it.

The insomnia-hypersomnia cycles have returned in force. Last week, I spent two full (non-consecutive) days asleep, lost in vivid, exciting dreams I didn’t want to wake from. I woke only to feed the cats, but didn’t bother feeding myself before passing out again. I’m so tired, and yet. And yet.

The disability forms finally arrived. I visit one doctor tomorrow for bloodwork results and to fill them out, the other doctor on Tuesday to fill out a second copy. I also made copies of existing diagnosis letters to send along with them. Here’s hoping it’ll be enough.

If nothing else, the desperate panic I felt when I couldn’t find my binder as a result of the packing confirmed I’m on the right track for something.

Starting to hallucinate now. That means it’s time to sleep.

I slept 25 hours.

My head hurts.