We all die by suicide

Things are getting really fucked up again. I'm resenting being around Craig's family -- I'm angry with them to the point where I feel like I hate them. Unfair and disillusional maybe, but I can't help not wanting to be anywhere near them.

Endured another shock to the system this weekend which has knocked me for six.

Went on a blind date who turned out to be blind drunk. A disaster. Another failure.

There is too much I hate about me at the moment.

Can't stop crying.

That man's father is my father's son

I had the day off from work today -- a relief considering the long hours we 'as a team' have been working.

I leave the room this morning and the first thing I hear is thanks, for bringing home an extra portion of food from the restaurant last night, followed swiftly by "I'm very sick."

I live with Craig's mother. She has had breast cancer. I feel for her, and yet her constant reminders of sickness and disease fills me with panic. I am unable to look after and care for another person at the moment. I took an anti-anxiety pill at 9:30 AM.

The illness brings back painful memories of my mother's cancer -- she died quickly but painfully after being diagnosed with colon cancer. She never once mentioned that she was sick to me. I was informed by counsellors who told me that she had a matter of months to live. A woman would come to visit me weekly, I convinced her I was fine while I drank away my fragility in the pub. She was taken into hospital in October and was dead by New Years Day. I remember hearing the U2 song in my head and it haunting me.

Daze gone by.

My head has finally cleared after the effects of a drunken night -- I accomplished absolutely NOTHING at work today. The city was blanketed in fog and so was my head for the best part of the day. We had an impromptu works gathering last night (I THINK it was to celebrate our tenth anniversay, but the details weren't too clear after a couple of downtown cosmo's) and I ended up locking lips with Patrick for the second time. We managed to make it to a pub for last orders and ended up sitting there at 3 AM holding hands across the table. I remember clinging in a manner of speaking, to his hands. It is such a small gesture but it brought home to me how lonely I have been. The smallest act of physical contact -- holding hands -- broke me so completely.

He drove me home and we kissed. I felt real emotion for the first time since Craig's death.

This is my greatest act
I've come boomeranging back
Grinning like a Rudolph Valentino
But then you grab your travel log
Like a swingin' grinnin' dog
And hop on that fast boat to Sydney

Coz I'm a cheat and I'm a liar
But you're a lovin' ball of fire
Honey I'll leave you like a bum without a penny
And while I'm home with the blues
I'll be hopping like a kangaroo
When I get off of that fast boat to Sydney -- Fast Boat to Sydney, June Carter & Johnny Cash

Knowing me.

Applying mascara this morning I noticed a tiny mole on my finger that I had never noticed before. It seems strange that I have lived in this body for 34 years and am still so unfamiliar with myself.

Could I really say I know somewhere like the back of my hand? I guess not.

Go on - FORCE IT!!!

Not wanting to write at all tonight -- but what is a blog if it is left ignored? You don't expect me to entertain you, do you?

Get out of town...

I was sent a really disgusting photo of Axl Rose today. He has put on a few burgers, and KFC's, and Taco Bells... I couldn't believe it was really him. Don't get me wrong -- I never liked the bastard....but that really takes the cake (haha?!)

Oooh...deary.

I'm not sure what's worse -- the fact that he was impersonating Ali G (for whom I have the upmost respect) or the fact that he's such a slob now. Votes please.

Passage from a book

I'm reading 'Another Bullshit Night in Suck City' by Nick Flynn.

This is a passage from the book, at the age of 22, after his mother's suicide in the weeks before Christmas.

"I reappear at school at the end of January, hollowed out by it all, but I don't know where else to be. I return to my room off-campus, in a house with four "radical" women, my friends, who taught me, finally, how to be a vegetarian. I enroll for classes, show up on time, but I can't seem to focus on the second half of Shakespeare, the comedies. Or on eating. And I can't stop crying. At one point a few weeks into the semester I find myself slumming in the Frost Library at Amherst College, reading Faulkner in one of those comfortable Ivy League chairs, and after a while I realize I haven't turned the page in over an hour. I focus on a sentence, a word, and get hung up -- each seems to have its own set of problems, its own code, until at some point I understand that I'm holding the book upside down. I right it, but even then my mind gets entangled, a sentence comes at me like a truck without a driver, bearing down -- It wasn't any woman that got her into what she don't even call trouble -- I try to get out of its way, I turn it over and over, but it's more an echo than a piece of something larger. My eyes go to the period and back to the first word, it means something more than I can unlock. Wasn't any woman...got her into what...she don't even call... I know then it will be impossible for me to finish school."

Anyone who has experienced suicide (or indeed, any unfathomable death) will be able to relate to the above. My mind in the weeks and months following Craig's death was a fog. I couldn't dress myself properly, I was unable to concentrate on television (something I admit to being a junkie of previously), reading was impossible, I stopped eating -- cooking was a myth.

I didn't buy this book knowing there would be any mention of suicide -- it's funny how it chases you.

Garlicky vegetables

There are other things that happen in my life, other than Craig's suicide. It's just that in context they are really not that important -- like the 'garlicky vegetables' mentioned above.

Last night I went to see 'Brokeback Mountain' at the movies with a co-worker (female, no love on the horizon yet.) I was blown away by the movie -- the scenery alone (filmed in Alberta) was enough to knock your socks off. I have flown over the region and from the sky it looked like an immense chocolate cake dusted with icing sugar -- you could almost open wide and BITE right into it.

Dubbed as the 'gay cowboy' movie it is a heartbreaking account of two people conforming to ideals and not following their hearts until the bitter end when it is far too late to do so. Scenes of Ennis clutching on to personal momentos brought on the tear machine. I now vow to do what makes me happy.

Following the movie Anayis and I went for a horrible meal at Montana's. I had what sounded like what was going to be a real treat -- beef and yorkshire pud -- but actually turned out to be rather icky beef, with a cold pud and garlicky mashed potatos (ok....mashed with garlic, yeah ok....we can do that) but then it seemed like someone in the kitchen had decided that sticking a shitload of garlic onto the vegetables just for the hell of it, would actually be a good idea. They were HORRIBLE....and I love my veggies normally. A brand spanking new yorky pud still didn't up my estimations so I left with a 'No more Montana's for me' sign on my forehead.

It is Saturday morning. I am drinking tea, receiving text messages from Jackey and updating my blog.

I have to work today.

Still no pills. We could write that two ways, like:

Still, no pills.

Or just as I did originally, they both mean something slightly different.

Visions of you.

Today I see Craig in the shopping mall. He is standing in front of me as I walk, standing sideways with his head turned away from me. For a moment my step falters and I look at him -- imagining it to be him and that none of the sadness had happened -- and then his head turns and my heart sinks as his face is not his own but belongs to a stranger. It looked so much like him standing there; same posture, same build -- his hands in his pockets -- I thought it was him.

I have not taken any Paxil today but my hormones are kicking in. It's a definitive cycle. I get horribly teary and become a huge pain in the bum for everyone I work with and basically ANYONE who has to deal with me. I seem to take a lot of it out on my friend Justin -- maybe it's because the poor bugger is male and I feel safe enough with him to let go of some of this anger -- it's certainly not fair on him, especially since he's been such a huge help to me through all of this torment.

I went to look at new cars. Could handle the cost of a new car but it seems the cost of insurance could eat me alive.

I'm new to Canada -- arrived here from Australia, via England (more on that to come) but unfortunately my prior driving experience (I have been driving since age 17) counts for peanuts. It'll be a whopping $305 per month and that's through a buddy of a buddy. I phoned an alternative company and was quoted just under $600 a month -- holy f&*k! I'm hoping to get a horse but I might as well scrap the car and just ride the horse to work.

Horses = therapy. Sadly, neither come cheap.

An eye for an eye

Tonight I can see Craig clearly in my mind as I lie in bed. I see him with the black leather belt tied around his neck -- knot to the back -- his red t-shirt with 'MEXICO' emblazoned across it and his khaki combat shorts with the frayed orange pullstring. He is just standing there, looking at me. He has been crying and he looks so helpless. I see him as he stares at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door before removing it and laying it on the bed. I see him take the chair from the computer and move it to the door, the back of the chair facing to the left of the door as he steps on to it, the door ajar so he can slip the belt through -- buckle behind the door so it won't pull through. I see him push the door shut, tug on the belt ensuring it is secure. I see him turn. One final thought: It will be better for everyone -- and push the chair, forwards or backwards, I never can tell.

I hear the decision in his voice when I had spoken to him earlier in the night, mind already made up. I can see him say goodbye to his friend -- shake his hand, walk back to the apartment in the next door building, knowing what he was about to do. Those final last steps.

I cry, I tell him I miss him. As I wipe away the tears they sear into the miserable paper cut I have on my finger from work this afternoon.

I have not taken the Paxil today. Maybe this is why I am feeling.

And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
And in a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this weighing of the truth.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die. -- Johnny Cash, The Mercy Seat.

Second post

Forcing myself to write tonight -- already!

My doctor put me on Paxil last week, today has been the fourth day of me taking it. I feel nauseous and more panicked and anxious than before. I went out for dessert and hot chocolate with friends and they commented on my 'jitters'. Also been given Ativan to calm me down -- curiously, I feel the Ativan alone would do more for me. I'm going to give it a few more days and see how things go.

Craig's sister was over last night. I drank and discovered that Paxil and alcohol is a combination I should avoid. I have noticed a decrease in my usual craving for a glass of wine at night, I suppose that is a good thing at least. We, as usual, went over details of Craig's death. I opened up a little and told her that I have been consistently agonizing over the last few hours and wondering if he had tried to stop himself once he'd tied the belt and tipped the chair.

Craig had drunk six beers on the night of his death -- six tallboys of Grolsch. I'm convinced he must have also taken clonazepam when he came home. He had half a pill left in his pill bottle and I remember him taking one pill and also giving one to me on that afternoon, after we had visited his counsellor. Both of us had returned from that meeting shaking and we needed something to calm down, this was a detail that I hadn't remembered previously. Yes, clonazepam calms you down, but I think he may have taken enough purposefully so he would be unable to save himself once he had started to hang himself.

I'm dreading work tomorrow. I am beginnning to feel an enormous amount of weight on my shoulders and feel gradually more and more overwhelmed at the prospect of the next couple of months. I can barely keep it together for a day.

Beginning

There is a reason for me doing this.

When you've turned the lights off for the umpteenth time in the hope of sleep welcoming you and yet again your mind turns to the impossible, you get the impression it is time to write things down.

And so I do.

Today is February 3rd, 2006 and 6 months ago, on the night of July 23rd (or the morning of July 24th, depending on how you look at it) my boyfriend Craig took his own life.

I can't begin to describe the impossible disbelief and utter denial I have experienced as a result of his death. I miss him, I love him, I'm so angry with him it burns me.

There is a lot that I have to say about the past six months and it is a journey that is far from over. This blog will be a tool for me to express the feelings inside of me and experience in detail something necessary but grotesque -- the things that torture me as I lie in bed waiting for sleep.

I am sure there are many other 'bloggers' like me, looking for the answers that lie somewhere in the realms of their minds, or in the possibilities that writing unfolds. This is not to be a work of literary mastery.