Greetings.
I have not written anything in a long time, as a result this will no doubt ramble. My head is full of partly collected thoughts, any one of which could become a rich post if I had found the time and discipline to crystallize them. In truth the things that needed written about the most happened at a time when writing was hardest to fit in. Thought that is ignoring the truth, which is in December and January I knew I needed to write badly, and choose not to. It continues to be difficult for me to write about and or during the worst emotions.
About December.
The gig I had hoped to last well into that month ran dry when the company simply did not have enough orders to demand extra manpower. This was a disappointment, at all levels, it was interesting the job took me to different sites and kept me engaged, it was making better money than the last few gigs and occasionally overtime was achieved. An important feature of the job was it started to frame more of what I wanted in a job I could do long term. Come to think this contract ran short at the end of November, but its failure set the mood for the following month.
Other work was arranged. This took me back to a warehouse with a broken and toxic atmosphere, I was prepared to ride it out and move on to the next thing once that dust settled. The flu changed my plans. Two weeks into the warehouse gig I found myself feverish and lacking the strength to reliably cross my apartment let alone leave it. This took me out for a week. The lost wages meant even the low budget christmas gifts I wanted to arrange were out of the question. New work came my way, it took me to Delta with an nearly 90 minute commute. This was exhausting but the work is comfortable.
In this long tiring daily scramble I managed to get the wrong stuff down the sink, plugging it up real good. This only days before christmas. For more days than I am comfortable admitting I came home to a stagnate sink which I bailed into the toilet. No where was this a good alternative to calling the management. I came home from christmas dinner to that undraining sink, it did nothing good for my mood. In the aftermath it two things became clear, the rent was too high and I was too vulnerable to lost income, and no amount of cleaning was going to make that apartment anything but dark and dingy. So I made the choice I had been avoiding since May of last year I gave my notice on the 1st of January. This of course filled me with dread.
On January.
Still recovering from the flu, and making the three hour round trip from work I set out to free myself from the old grey box. Added to the slow healing from the virus, I had developed insomnia, waking too early in the morning and staying awaking stewing in worry and dread. For at least a month feeling absolutely toxic from long term sleep dept was normal. It was in this syrupy mind set that I tried to do one of the more challenging things in life, plan a move.
When it came to finding a place I was lucky, but did not believe it. Over the years since I moved to the old place, I had built a list of qualities that would make moving worth while. This was embedded in my thinking, and had I not internalized it as deeply as I had I would not have made the snap decision to apply for my current home. It met the criteria I had set up, it is off of the ground floor, close to skytrain, bright, a better kitchen, simply newer and better. Yet a pathological doubt took root, the part of me that always wants me to fail refused to accept a good thing was happening.
Against evidence and logic, after the application was approved and even after the damage deposit cheque cleared, I somehow believed I would not end up here, that something would go wrong. I spent January, not properly preparing for a move but exhausted form sleep lost to worries not worth having. Every day I feared something would derail the application, and I would be forced to scramble for a new place at the last minute. This crippling illogical mind fuck kept me from doing the proactive things. In believing things would fail I failed to try to get my shit together. The abyssal cluster fuck that was moving day is proof that I should have had enough faith to plan.
I won't say much about the move. It went badly and things found extra special ways of going wrong. But thanks to heroic efforts from family and friend it got done.
On February.
After 6 to 8 weeks of sleep shortage, long commutes, endless packing, the flu, a cold, I was moved. Suddenly I had light, I could walk to skytrain in 10 minutes, I could stretch out, no upstairs neighbours thumped and squeaked the floor boards. Gone was the tiny grey hole with the fridge that scared the cat. In its place a imperfect laminate floor and a view of the Golden ears mountains.
Slowly I relearned to sleep through the night, the panics in the wee hours subsided. It took time but the cold cleared up too. Money remains tight, I may have saved some on rent, but my addiction to independence, and the need to keep the Lady in a big enough home kept me from cutting as much as I would have liked from the costs of living. That said, I can get some milage out of the money saved and can relax just a little bit.
In leaving the old place I realize there were a lot of bad times tied to that place. The frustration of the layoff and the fruitless job search that followed. The Lady Baroness von Softpaws of Gallefrey ran away from there. Her disappearance, rescue and recovery kept me in some form of big stress from July 30 2013 till February 2014. It was not until February of last year that I was confident that the house was free of fleas. And perhaps just perhaps a home that lets me shed my stress a little better will in the end leave me with the ability pick a new stress to manage. Because it is dawning on me that I have to do some work to getting back into work for the long term.
