I think I'm doing a bit better these days. I'm getting out more and spending time with friends whereas before, I was just sort of shut in the house. I still have a hard time with mornings and afternoons, though. I wake up and immediately feel like I don't want to be awake. I usually eat and then go back to bed. It seems to take me most of the day to muster up the enthusiasm or at least the drive to go out to whatever I have to do in the evenings. I still have strange thoughts all the time, mostly about life and how it is that people just get up and go about their day. It's really weird... even when I'm watching TV, for example, I'll see a guest on the Jerry Springer show who is there to tell his wife that he is cheating on her with an albino midget or whatever, and all I think is, "How did that guy get out of bed this morning? How did he get up, wander into his kitchen, eat his cereal and have a shower without thinking about how weird and bizaare everything is? How did he get dressed and leave the house to go and have sex with the albino midget, feeling comfortable with himself and confident and not over-analyzing the things that he says and does??"

My mom is really pissed off at me because of my habit of sleeping and staying in the house most of the day. She's stopped talking to me about it and just sort of stomps around the house now and offers me icy responses to my questions. I feel pretty alone but at the same time, it seems that the less I talk about how I'm feeling, the more I am able to get on with things. I try to imagine living alone and how I would feel/cope if I didn't have my parents around all the time. In some weird way, I think having them around as a constant sounding board for my feelings is making me worse. I am really dissatisfied with my life and everything about myself at the moment. I've sort of been seeing this guy... well, not really, but we get baked, watch movies and sometimes we kiss. I met him at the hospital, actually, and I like spending time with him because I feel like I can talk about how I'm feeling... but the only thing is, he's kind of... not so smart. Not to be mean or anything, but his spelling is atrocious and he is not really as quick-witted as I would like. To make matters worse, I have a huge crush on his roomate, and in a drunken stupour last night, sent the roomate a FB message telling him that I think he's cute! DOH! He hasn't written back and I doubt that he will.

I wish I didn't do stupid things like sleep all day, get drunk and/or stoned every night and hit on people I should steer clear of. I really don't understand why my life has become this way and why I do the things that I do. I hate every day and the constant feeling of being ill at ease with myself and questioning everything I do. I hate myself for what I do but I can't seem to stop doing it, you know? Getting drunk or stoned is the only time when I feel confident and able to come out of my shell. If my counsellors knew this, they'd have a field day. I wish I was strong and independent and didn't have to answer to people like this. I wish that none of this had ever happened to me, that I had been able to continue on in my old life, feeling okay with decisions I had made and drinking without guilt or remorse and not looking elsewhere desperately for approval and assurance that I am okay and normal. I should not have to shell out tons of money for prescriptions and counselling appts and should not have to attend group therapy classes. I am almost 30 years old; I should be married or have kids, I should have a career and be running a household. I should see my parents twice or three times a year for holiday dinners and be glad to get away from them when the night is over.

Things are still not great. It's this constant restlessness that plagues me day and night. When I am at home, I don't know what do to with myself. I pace, I smoke. I sit down and try to read my emails but find that I don't want to engage in that for longer than a minute. I don't want to pratice my guitar or do any housework. I continually sabotague myself by not going to work, only to find that I am grow exceedingly restless as the day wears on. I want to sleep to escape having to find something to do with myself. Even sitting down to write this entry is an effort.

When I am out with people, the same feeling applies. I feel anxiousness and stir-crazy, like I can't sit still and am consistently discontent with whatever I'm doing. I don't seem to be able to derive pleasure from anything anymore. I also can't seem to get out of my own head. I think constantly about how I'm feeling and can't just make myself go out and get on with the day, or enjoy any activities that the day may bring.

I have decided to go off of my drugs. Despite reading some pretty horrendous stories about side effects when doing so, I still feel that I want to have a clear head and to see if being drug free will make any sort of difference.

I just want to scream most of the time.

My presence weighs heavy upon this house. There is only anger and weariness in my parents' voices when they speak to me now. My episodes are constant fuel for their reactionary behavior. If I choose to stay in at night and sleep, I can see them visibly crumble. They only want me around when I am happy go-lucky Stef, not the person I am now. They have no more left to give.

Today they are full of malice and bitterness, they are angered by my pain. My father called my former counsellor behind my back to talk about 'options'. I saw my GP today and she basically closed the door in my face, telling me that she cannot refer me to a new psychiatrist, as I've already got such a gosh-darned good one.

Last night, I dreamed about Jonathan Brandis, that once-child actor from the Neverending Story II. As a young girl, I fancied him. I was surprised when he showed up in my dream, clear-eyed and with a broad grin.

I had just fled a school shooting where I was wounded through the right hand, in the exact same place as my self-inflicted cigarette burn. I entered a mall and saw him, coming up the escalator. He was golden and shining and every bit as lovely as I remembered.

I approached him, gushing, and introduced myself. He took my hand and squeezed it so hard that the bullet wound wept puss. There was something urgent about his handshake. Today I googled him and found out that he hung himself in 2003.

I am fleeing this place tonight. My presence hurts and brings down everyone around me. I am running away, just like a little child, running over to a friend's house to hide. I don't want to be the burden that I have become. As my teenage boyfriend Robin would have said to me, "You're a sinking ship. And even rats won't stay on a sinking ship."

Things are still not great for me. I am in a low point, as we've taken to calling it, where I just constantly feel ill at ease and like I want to get away from myself. It's not even an "I'm feeling bad about myself" sort of thing... it's a literal feeling of dread and wanting to escape.

I didn't go to work today. I somehow seem to feel that, by sleeping in, I'll be able to miss the day, that it will pass right by me and I won't have to live it. Try as I might, though, the day is still there, and I still have to get up and accomplish things, and work through these terrible thoughts that assail me.

I went to the gym tonight and before my workout, I felt this utter terror and panic, as though I were going to go crazy or scream at any moment. When I get into these states, reality seems skewered. I fear the simplest, most mundane of tasks. The thought of spending time with friends, of being out and about, weighs on me with a heavy dread. I don't understand how it is that I have become this way and how other people sail through life without giving strange, extitential thoughts a passing glance.

No one really knows what is going on with me or what is causing this. Counsellors cannot offer anything much and I've been snowed with medication by my psychiatrist, but the feelings remain. Everyone tells me that it's all in my head and that I have to learn to help myself. I just wish I could get through the day without feeling this way. I've been praying a lot, bargaining with God, even claiming that, if He will make this subside, I will become confirmed at the church where I sing. I don't know if He can hear me.

This was a big decision for me, to come back here, to this shrine of the self. There was a time, a long period, in fact, when the dazzling superficiality of Facebook and absorbtion into the world of celebrity gossip and fashion blogs was all I needed. I was strong, vibrant, fearless, caring nothing for the inner working of the soul and the tedious ritual of navel-gazing. I had a live-in love, a full time job, an arsenal of beautiful friends, a social card jam-packed with parties, BBQs, beach days, camping trips, dinner parties and other engagements. I was complete.

So much has happened over the past two years of my life and most of it tumultuous. And so it is that I return here, to a ghosttown that no longer boasts a populace, having long since been foresaken by those few voyeurs who once enjoyed a peek into my life as it was back then. I don't know that anyone will read this and I'm not sure that I care. I am not that same Missy anymore, if indeed I ever was at all.

Morgan is gone and painfully so. He literally wants nothing more to do with me and is blissfully ensconsed in a new relationship with a 23 year-old who describes herself as a 'post-modernist, impossibilist Marxist', or something to that effect. The boy who was supposed to take Morgan's place turned out to be just that, a boy and nothing more. Suddenly there was nothing but a terrible void where everything that Morgan gave me used to me. I had to give up my beautiful little condo, our condo, and move back in with parents.

The depression and anxiety have been overwhelming for months now. I can barely work because it's hard for me to get out of bed. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and hate being around myself and with myself, day in and day out. I was accepted into university this coming term, but ended up having to differ my entry for another year.

I have been in the psych ward here in Victoria and in psychiatric emergency multiple times. I have cut myself with razor blades, burned myself with cigarettes, OD'ed on benzodiazapines and anti-psychotics. I feel often that my skin is crawling, that I would do anything to get away from this fleshy prison that encases me. I am stuck relying on the support of my parents, who fumble and dodder about, trying to make heads or tails of what is wrong with me. No one really knows what the problem is.

A counsellor I've been seeing for months has given up on me, telling me there is nothing more she can do for me. I have been labelled as having various personality disorders and dependent traits. My days are little more than cycles of smoking and sleeping, avoiding the prying eyes and disappointed words of my mother, and playing oh so much guitar in an effort to dispell the gloom.

I am at such a low, and feel so far from who I was when I started this journal. I no longer revel in my own wit and joy at the prospect of sharing myself with others. I feel as though I have nothing to offer, that I have no one and, what's worse, that I want nothing. I no longer care about or feel interested in romance. My self esteem has been decimated and I can't seem to feel a sense of pride, accomplishment, happiness or satisfaction in anything. Like an itch that I cannot scratch, I am always yearning for something more, something beyond myself.

So, where have *I* been, you ask?

To the ends of the earth and back.

Up to my armpits in it again, and loving it.

Camping was amazing. So was floating at Durrance Lake this afternoon, on what was officially the Hottest Day of the Year (35 + degrees??) Everything's just a jolly bowl of cherries right now.. too bad I don't feel like talking about any of it!

Instead, I feel the need to vent my extreme aggravation at the fact that I feel as though I'm constantly living my life for someone else, censoring myself, being something that I am not, abstaining from the things in life that make me happy (such as potato chips and cigarettes), and hating every minute of it.

So there! ARGH!

And... scene.

If anyone cares, I'm off to picturesque Port Alberni tomorrow to perform with the Doukhobors at Forest Fest, and to (in the inimitable words of Bryce Wray) "camp the shit out of it" over the weekend at Sproat Lake.

I'm sure that many hilarious and hideous events will transpire. I'll be back with an update shortly!

Unless a bear eats me.

Either way, it's kind of a win-win.

When someone tells you that they're only happy when you hate them, you have no choice but to try. It's the least you can do.

I'm tired. I can barely stay awake later than 10:30 p.m. lately. I attribute this to the 7 a.m. shifts that I am slowly become accustomed to, and also perhaps to the fact that I've been working out obsessively, doggedly, five or six days a week now, in an effort to perfect the physical while the spiritual slowly decays.

I'm smoking again, a lot, all day, and I don't care because the damage hasn't started to show on the outside yet. Mentally, I'm a total wreck, grasping at straws, feeling bitter and resentful of any and all happy endings, looking for reasons when there are none. Outwardly, however, I continue to improve. I'm getting thinner, stronger, I've even started tanning in an ultraviolet coffin in the constant pursuit of perfection.

I've always been one for irony.

I am now ready to assume my throne as the Queen of Awkward Moments That Could Otherwise Have Been Avoided Had I Even A Modicum of Common Sense.

I can't see any way to make this situation tolerable. Stony silence crushes me, polite pleasantries madden me, casual jokes just leave me wanting more.

That squirrel had the right idea. Too bad he didn't have the nuts to get the job done.

I've been thinking lately and I've come to the follow two conclusions:

a. I enjoy self-destructive behaviour,

and

b. Alcohol and cigarettes are a great way to gradually and non-chalantly self-destruct.

Ergo, I have abandoned my latest (and possibly greatest) streak of sober living, and have plunged back into the dank pool of excess with appropriate aplomb.

My weekend started off early and with a bang, as several work buddies gathered at the pub on Thursday night for Nicole's going-away party. We all lamented the loss of such a sassy and sardonic cohort, expressing our grief by imbibing in pitchers of beer and Dr. Pepper shots. After several hours, it became quite necessary for us all to return to my house to play some DDR and pass out.

On Saturday, Morgan and I drove up to Shawnigan Lake to attend The Second Annual Bad Bathing Suit Party, hosted by the infamous duo of Jenny and Mike. The weather was unseasonably chilly, so Mike proceeded to stoke the fire and turn the cabin into a hot, sweaty drunkfest from which the only escape was to don our ridiculous swim wear and pose for glamour shots. Most of those shots are now up on facebook, for any and all interested parties. I must say: I was hardly aware that wearing a child's bathing suit and posing for gratuitous crotch shots would attract such a frenzy of activity on my facebook page! Duly noted.

It seems to me that my life is a series of frantic, fleeting moments, bizaare episodes which I attempt to stretch across the sturdy framework of each day. Today, for example, was sort of surreal.

A squirrel with a mangled tail and an obvious death wish darted under my car on the way to Starbucks, prompting Davina and I to shriek like little girls. Thankfully, I managed to swerve and avoid the pitiful creature. Later on, as we were leaving the Starbucks, we saw what was surely the same squirrel, throwing itself under yet another moving vehicle. I wondered how things had gotten so bad for the squirrel. I pitied it while all the while admiring its morbid tenacity.

I thought about the squirrel a lot today, about how its macabre and desparate ritual mirrors the way I have been behaving as of late. I know that I should head in the other direction, but I see in his eyes the promise of relief, the sweetness of oblivion, and I eagerly throw myself into his path once more.

It's day 10 of my 10th quitting attempt. Discomfort is my new best friend. I wear it round my neck like this season's latest accessory. In the morning, late at night, there is a dull ache behind my ribs, as though someone has broken my heart. Having realized that 80% of quitting attempts (and 100% of my own) have been foiled by alcohol consumption, I have also determined to avoid the drink for 30 days. Basically, I'm having no fun whatsoever, and sometimes, I grow very bitter when I contemplate the fact that, maybe, I'm totally alone in this.

Today at the grocery store, the check out girl told me that it was her sixth shift in a row, and that she could now totally understand how a disgruntled worker might enter their place of employment with a loaded shot gun and open fire. I decided not to point out that she had rung my crackers through twice.

This girl, (Ashley, was her name), was built like a linebacker. She had pink streaks in her hair and a stud in her nose and you could just tell that her life was not going in the direction she had envisioned as a four year-old girl, playing with her Barbies on the rug in her bedroom. I realized when I spoke to her that there are so many stories out there, and that we're all struggling in some weird, private way. Everyone isn't happy, but everyone IS alone. I found a strange comfort in that realization, in the fact that the world is so fucked up and so beautiful, and that we're all only here to write our own stories in books and blogs and on bathroom walls.

I’ve always considered myself a scholar of religion; as far back as I can remember, I’ve been acutely interested in its imagery, its meanings and its various definitions. I’ve questioned my own individual interpretation of “faith” on many occasions, but despite this, I’ve never questioned having faith in Faith Itself. I’ve always had a certain respect for the faithful, and an unwavering belief that man needs something to hope for and aspire to be. I hesitate to refer to myself as a “theologian”, if only because this term seems to imply a certain dogged piety that I will never possess. Still, I believe I can confidently state that my religion is, quite simply, the study of religion.

At my current place of employment, I am lucky enough to be surrounded by a plethora of varying religions, faiths and beliefs. The various sects and splinter factions of Christianity are of particular interest to me. I voraciously devour wikipedia entries on the subject, dissecting definitions and comparing tenets of various denominations because, for some probably-perverse reason, I find it “fun”. I’m interested in the Catholic idea of purgatory, the Calvinist concept of predestination, the Arminian notion of salvation through faith alone, the Jehovah’s Witness rejection of rote rituals in place of good works, the arcane Mormon belief in a Great Apostasy.. Hell, even the slightly-dubious “Bridge To Total Freedom” idea of L. Ron Hubbard captures my interest a bit.

I work with this guy, a short, quirky man with a penchant for loud shirts. This man is a Christadelphian. I was delighted to learn this fact and pick his brain, as I had had no prior contact with anyone of that particular faith before our meeting. I told him that I was a Doukhobor, and for a couple of weeks thereafter, we were wont to engage in earnest theological discussions at the water cooler or in the halls. It seemed only natural: we were, after all, united by the common theme of conscientious objection/pacifism, and he seemed quietly fascinated by MY fascination with his ideals.

Until, that is, the Strip Club Incident.

Morgan's mother had decided that, to celebrate her 50th birthday, she would enjoy a trip to the Fox to do shots and watch the peelers. Having long-since stopped questioning anything to do with the Wray family, I got gussied up and headed down to the bar, where we all got quite inebriated and I ran into some folks from work.

The following week, as I sat slouched at my desk, the Christadelphian approached and said, "Alright, so I heard you went to the strip club on the weekend... and I was just wondering if it was because you are a Doukhobor."

"Bah?" I asked, pulling my iPod headphones out of my ears.

"Well, you know," he continued in an aggitated tone. "The whole... NUDITY thing. Maybe your people are okay with it."

"Umm..." I couldn't quite figure out what to say. First off, the whole nudity stereotype never ceases to offend me. I was a little hurt. I had taken the time to learn about his beliefs. Clearly, he had not done his homework. What was more, he actually seemed shocked that I, as a self-proclaimed CHRISTIAN, would possibly entertain the notion of going to a strip club.

I tried to explain. "Well, I'm not that... devout, I guess you'd say. We just went to have fun. It was my boyfriend's mom's birthday, and - "

"Yes, I HEARD that," he raised a disapproving eyebrow before continuing. "In MY faith, looking at a naked woman means you are committing adultery with her. IN YOUR HEART!"

This was getting weird. People were starting to peer over their computer monitors at the two of us. I felt this sudden, awful need to explain myself, and I couldn't figure out why. "I mean, who DOESN'T enjoy going out to the peelers now and then?" I asked myself. Why did everything have to be about religion for this guy??

"I thought you were interested in..in THEOLOGY!" he insisted. His look of disappointment cut me to the quick.

Try as I might, I could not explain to this weirdo the difference between being an artist and an art historian, a novellist and a literary critic, a zealot and a scholar.

Jesus, your teachings are swell and all, but for crying out loud, protect me from your followers, already!

Since when does HE get to be mad at ME? I'm extending the olive branch, here. I'm practically being a martyr, and all he does is pretend he doesn't see me whenever I come into view.

An actual friend request I just received:

"Hey Stef, remember me? It's _________. It's been forever, I haven't seen you since that night in grade 11 when you snuck into my room and I felt you up. Weird, huh??"



Oh God.

It's official: I can't use the washroom at work anymore.

This past week, our entire support department has been relocated to the space next door to the office proper, where a small, neighbourhood hair salon once lived. For myriad reasons which I will not go into at this time, the spot that I have assigned to in our new space is clearly the bottom of the barrel in terms of comfort. Worse than all of this, however, is the situation involving the lavatory.

There is but one pitiful toilet in this new facility, and, although I much prefer the soft lighting in this washroom to the sodium glare of the Office washrooms, I cringe each time I contemplate the fact that I am forced to share this one seat with 15 other people, half of whom are men. This morning, I walked into the washroom and noted that someone had thoughtfully left behind several curly black pubes which adorned the toilet rim, the seat of which had, of course, been LEFT UP.

I can really sense an Us and Them mentality in the office now. I received a lot of strange looks today when I wandered back into the REAL office to fill up my glass from the water cooler, looks that asked, "Just what exactly are YOU doing here? Get back to your...area."

For awhile now, I've had a collection of emails sitting in the trash can of my gmail account. These emails were written months ago and I threw them out with the intention of forgetting them and moving on with my life. Still, about once a week or so, I seem to habitually revisit them, pouring over their contents again and again as if I might find a new sentence or a deeper revelation contained therein, if I only searched hard enough.

I opened my trash can today and was shocked to find that they were gone. Permanently. Of course, I knew that this would happen, that gmail automatically deletes items in the trash can after 30 days, but I suppose that, deep-down, I had intended to rescue them before they were flushed away into the ether.

I have taken this loss pretty hard. I wanted to keep these words and phrases, to hold onto them and press them close to my heart, because they justified everything. The proved something to me, and now that they are gone, it's as though nothing ever happened at all, like I dreamed the whole thing.

Every once in a while, I think it wise to check back in with my estranged first love, Livejournal. Our relationship did experience a brief resurgance recently, but alas, we've grown apart again. Still, every so often, when the light slants through the blinds in just the right way, and iTunes is playing our song, I come crawling back to bash out a few meagre paragraphs.

I'm sorry, Livejournal, but I can't lie to you anymore. I've been spending time with Facebook... a lot of time. But I've been thinking of YOU the whole time, I swear!

So, geez Louise, what's been going with me? I've been enjoying some rare free time lately, as all of my performing is currently finished for the time being. I haven't had any rehearsals since the May Long Weekend, and I'm pleased as punch. With this new-found extra time, I've been trying to hit the gym four-five times a week. So far, so good.

I had the great fortune to meet (and have an extremely-awkward photograph taken with) none other than Mr. Chuck Palahniuk (!!) at his recent book signing on Monday evening!! He spoke for two hours, reading excerpts from "Haunted" and asking trivia questions of the audience. He was absolutely transfixing, and I sincerely regret taking ilion up on his bet to ask Palahniuk to KISS me for our posed photograph.

Needless to say, I was shot down in flames.. but WHAT flames! You haven't arrived until you've been rejected by your favourite author.

On the way home from work today, I stopped in at the new-ish thrift shop at Quadra and Hillside. I'd never been there before, and I found some great bargains, including a purse, a hardcopy cover of "Silence of the Lambs" and a barely-functional 80s crimping iron, all for only $5.21.

I am currently waiting for my mother to pick me up so that we can take her terminally-ill cat Leo (or Leonardo Emilio Octavio) to the veterinarian, where, depending on what the diagnosis is, he may or may not meet with "The Big Sleep". I figured that I should try to occupy my morose thoughts by whipping up a quick entry, for any and all interested parties.

Morgan and I went off to Castlegar with my mother for the May Long Weekend, where my Doukhobor choir performed in the 60th annual USCC cultural festival. I was a tad concerned that Morgan might be puzzled, confused and/or completely unimpressed with the whole cultural experience, but he was surprisingly accepting of it, rolling with the punches and proving himself a real trooper the entire weekend.

Pictures are up in my facebook account, and I may get around to doing an LJ photo post one of these days, too, if I can steel myself to endure more questions like, "What's with the shawl?", "Are you Mormon?" and "Are you in a CULT or something?"

It's a been a little while.

I simply hadn't had the heart to blog lately, what with the hideous events of last weekend still fresh in my mind. I've had some time to come to terms with everything now, however, and I've learned to become accustomed to the continual glares he casts at me from his office window each morning. I still can't figure out how *I* ended up being the asshole in this situation, but it's probably for the best. One of us had to become the victim or nothing would have ever changed. I miss him, his friendship, the things we used to laugh about. I know, however, that it was stupid of me to ever believe any of that was real.

I'm staying in tonight and resting my voice and mind a little bit. I've got a concert with the UVic Lieder Singers this coming Monday night, at which I will be performing several arias, including such daunting gut-busters as "Mein Herr Marquis" from "die Fledermaus" and "Ach, Ich's Fuhls" from "die Zauberflote". I'm a bit worried about these numbers in particular, as I continue to struggle with the quality of my high notes.

I had a rehearsal with the conductor and the accompanist this evening, and they were both incredibly complimentary and supportive. Still, I am frustrated. I've been taking voice again regularly, I've been practicing diligently, I've been staying in, getting enough sleep and taking care of myself...AND I'm on Day Four of another Very Serious Quitting Attempt. (After coming home on Monday night and heading out to the deck for a smoke, I turned to Morgan and proclaimed, "THIS is my last cigarette!". With a flourish, I crushed up my pack of Export A and threw it in the trash bin. I can't really go back on that now).

Despite all of these measures, I continue to fight with my vocal chords for supremacy and total domination.

I sincerely hope that this event does not become Mutiny on the High C's.

How is it that I always find them, or that they always find me?

It's totally amazing to me how evil people are inside.


I know you're probably reading this, so let me just say that you make me sick. You tricked me into believing something that was never true. I always did my best to stick up for you and reassure you, no matter what mood you decided to be in on a daily basis. I really thought, aside from everything, that you were a real friend. I thought I could trust you and confide in you as you did in me. You have repaid my kindness with outright betrayal.

You're right to not believe that you're going to hell. I imagine that, now, you're probably already living in it.

Shopping is like crack for me. Today, I went to three different malls, and came home with a shirt, a dress, a jacket, two necklaces and two pairs of shoes.. and still felt curiously hollow and incomplete.

It's almost 11:30 p.m. and I have to work a 12-hour shift tomorrow, but seeing as the Canucks have just lost yet another play off game, I've decided to crack another beer. Lately I've been feeling like everything could just be solved with a beer or two, and maybe a smoke for good measure. I've pretty much lost all impetus and/or desire to give up that latter vice, and have actually begun to regard it as an old, comforting friend.

God, I hope I get my shit together soon. I can't keep moping about, hoping for something to change.