Arma

I cycle back here, what, every 8 months? When I have something different to say, I suppose.

Well, here we are. Insurance is finally getting put to use and as fucking terrified as I was of being told to 'work harder/try harder' to overcome my depression or that my being sturdy physically would bite me in the ass, I scheduled a thing and did it.

Needles have gotten smaller.

Long and short, I guess I'm officially diagnosed with something I know has been kicking into higher gear for the past 5 or so years. Thankfully, I didn't have to pay to hear something I already knew, nor for the Escitalopram (5mg) prescription that I've been now on for 3 days. The smart thing to do is track it. Were I 16 again, I'd be putting pen to paper but we don't live in that day and age now.


Day 1 and 2 were good. My base level of existence wasn't plagued with a resigned 'why bother trying to say or do anything because it'll be stopped and it doesn't matter is easier then getting mad' to the point where I feel faded, like a painted picture of a personality that had faded so badly from sun and elements that there's barely any painting there. Frankly, that's a great first step.

I'm a resilient soul. I conform, I take my hits and keep my head down to avoid notice and focus on getting the hell outta dodge. I know the steps to this fight and I feel like maybe, just maybe, I'll get a little gas to step outta the ring and smell the roses or something.

We're on day 3 and it's a downward trend. All 3 nights I've been bushed by 8:30, but I kind of have an appetite again. I can eat without being nauseous while doing so. Its easier to eat, to swallow, and its somehow less of a chore. Sleep quality has also gone up too. I'm okay with that trade off.

I have to watch my weight, which I've really been doing for a while now, but every time my situation leads to a better eating lifestyle for me I've lost pounds. Here's hoping it continues.

People are going down like flies. Roommates are both losing a family member - one down, one in the hospital to go and I keep meaning to finish that poem:

15 minute Grief
Between cups of coffee and cigarette breaks
Tucked inside post-sales meetings where 'Feelings' aren't on the schedule..

It feels appropriate that that's as far as I got.

I hate that they get to feel it. They get to go and grieve. I'm bitter because I couldn't. I'm angry because I can't.

But that's not fair to anyone, is it.

The past three days have been a special kind of hell. Between breaking my phone, having to suffer some inappropriate shit at the office like open racism and class-ism (elitism?), and the fucking murder that is my trigger finger in the days before the start of my cycle, my field of fucks is starting to go seriously barren.

I'm trying to not focus on the fact that it feels like everything revolves around everyone else. And I hesitate so much on approaching this idea at all because of the automatic lean towards 'That's selfish' that gets made. I don't want to be the center of attention, I just want to be involved. My threads do, in fact, include my character in an active way.

Extrapolation:

Phone: I'm pissed that I had to drop a hundred bucks, on top of the near 400 that I spent between Koko and Kal's birthdays. What a stupid thing to do, leaving it on the top of my car. I'm still upset about it. Google Fi did pretty damned well in getting me a replacement though, and my job and I are super happy about that.

The Meeting: I've only gotten to talk about this with Kal and Koko, and they only asked because they saw/love me. It was a hard meeting. One of the partners opened said, "Black people don't play hockey." Most people would suggest that maybe it was just a bad stereotyping joke and I still have a big fucking problem with that. (Much like everywhere else, my opinions on these kinds of things don't really matter and rarely take seniority; you don't correct the guy who is technically helping pay you.) He doesn't seem to realize there are black Canadians. I don't know or care enough about hockey to look, but I'm sure there's plenty of black Canadians that play hockey.

I apologize to Canada in advance for the next comments.

We've got two other partners, besides Bosslady. Alt!Tech guy and.... BossMan. Whatever, it works. Alt!Techguy chips in. "Honestly, hockey is a stupid sport. Anything with ice, skating, sweeping whatever. It's the stupidest fucking sports, to have to get up at 3 am for ice." Well fuck you too. He continued on in the conversation, they ended up talking about their kids and their private schools and how School 1A beat everyone down to 6A and look - I don't begrudge them what they have and the means they have to do these things for their children. More power to you, they worked their asses off, congratulations. Alt!Tech guy continues. "It's like Soccer. Poor people can't afford to play soccer." The context was traveling for tournaments and maybe I'm being a bitch but hey, fuck you.

Trigger Finger: Me and my goddamned mouth. During this meeting, and after having to silently, expressionlessly take listening to that spew of elitist crap, we finally get around to the fucking point. Customizing a feature. Bossman wants canned messages. I say both canned and free text field is a better option, since there are anal retentive people in the world. An example is given. Bossman scoffs. "I don't care about if Fluffy went one or two, I just want to know that they're there." And I just cock to the side at him and remind him that we've got a brickton of businesses with more then double in client's client's who a have a million different types of animals with different needs and maybe Suzie Q does want to know what consistency Fluffy's shit was that day.

He put his hand in my face. "Fair point," and then pushed the conversation right along.






Bitch.



I need the paycheck, I need the paycheck, I need the paycheck.

I got an e-mail from Bosslady about 25 minutes after it all ended, asking me if everything was okay, that I wasn't myself, and to let her know if she could do anything. I asked, (and got) a half day off. I don't know what set it off, or what she saw, but. While I want her to understand that I'm more then uncomfortable in those conversations, I don't want to show too many of my stress lines at work. I want to be good. I want to be smart and productive. I want to keep this job.

Thank god tomorrow is Friday.