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Postcards from Vancouver

October 17, 2017

I’ve been at Mr. Canada’s for a week. I go home tomorrow.

I feel like shit. I don’t think my meds are working. I think it might be time to try something new. I need to find a doctor and a therapist, who will see me for free, of course.

I came here last Sunday night. Mr. C had to convince me. When he first suggested it I was pissed off because I had just suggested the same thing a few days before and he shot me down.

It was Canadian Thanksgiving and he had four days off. He had just been to Portland to see me the weekend before and his car broke down for the second time while visiting me. The repair had cost him and he needed to save some money for a while. Since I’m broke, he ends up paying for everything when he’s in Portland.

I thought about driving up there to surprise him but my license plate is expired and I was worried about getting through border control. Then I thought maybe I could take a train or a bus, but that was expensive and long. So I had the idea that I could take a bus to Seattle and maybe he could come pick me up.

“What if I called you tomorrow and told you I was in Seattle?” I asked him Friday night.

“I would drive over and pick you up!” he said.

“Really? Well, maybe I could do that,” I said.

We talked about it some more but in the end, he thought we should stay put and save money. I thought maybe he didn’t want to be the one who had to pay for everything. A perfectly reasonable thought. So, I agreed and resigned myself to not seeing him even though we both had the free time, which was quite frustrating.

I was already feeling weird. I had skipped a couple of days of one of my meds because of health coverage confusion. My scripts bounced back and forth from one place to another until I finally got the right place. By the time I went to pick up the pills, I was on the verge of tears at any given moment and ended up crying in front of the pharmacy person, trying to explain that it wasn’t the situation, it was the imbalance of chemicals in my brain.

So, Sunday came around and I was huddled in a corner of my bed talking to myself in my head. Get up. Go pee. Take you meds. Make coffee. You can do those things. That’s not too much. Then you can come back to your corner and we’ll take it from there. Come on. You can get up. Then my phone made the ding that means it’s Mr. Canada. I glanced at it.

“What if I send you a bus ticket to Seattle and came pick you up?”

Son of a bitch. What the fuck?  That’s exactly what I suggested. I could’ve been there already. I started to cry. A familiar feeling overwhelmed me. That feeling of not being listened to. Of an idea being rejected until it comes from the other person. Mr. K used to pull that shit all the time. If I thought something was important, it wasn’t, unless someone else, someone whose opinion was important to him thought it was important. Then he changed his mind. This feeling was amplified when he said he was hosting Thanksgiving and didn’t want to do it without me there. Oh, that’s what it is. You want your girlfriend there when your friends come over. Now it’s worth the trouble.

I sat there in my corner, having accomplished the monumental tasks of emptying my bladder, swallowing two pills, putting some water to boil and putting three scoops of coffee into my french press.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to go. Or maybe I did. I didn’t know if I had the energy to get my shit together and catch a bus. I was pissed off that he hadn’t agreed to the same idea before. I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. My brain was paralyzed. I knew if I didn’t go I would be there in my corner while he was having a party.

I asked why he changed his mind. I told him I was upset and confused. He tried to call. I didn’t answer. All I could do was cry. I finally answered. I still cried. He begged me to come. He said he had been stupid for not doing it before. He said he fucked up and he was sorry and he needed me to be there with him.

I finally acquiesced.

“This better be good,” I said.

 

Monday morning he cooked and I cleaned up his apartment a bit. His big, white, fluffy cat leaves hair everywhere. Only his friend Donna came over. It was just the three of us. We talked and ate and drank beer. I put up a good front. I’ve gotten good at that.

Mr. C wanted me to stay the week. I checked in with the doctor I was doing some data entry work for and he wasn’t going to be back in town until Friday anyway. So I agreed to stay.

I made dinner one night. My own weird brand of pasta sauce. We watched the first and second godfathers. We drove to the mountain and saw a waterfall and walked along the pebbled shore. I went for walks and did some job searching and washed dishes. We were supposed to go dancing last night. I told him I didn’t know if I was going to enjoy myself. My head wasn’t in the right space. So, we snuggled in bed, exchanged back rubs and watched a movie.

Mr. Canada is incredibly understanding and accommodating. He says he wants me to be whatever I need to be. He says he loves to be with me no matter what state I’m in. He says he loves all of me, even depressed me. His kindness is overwhelming. I don’t feel like I deserve it. I don’t feel like I’m the girlfriend he should have. Who wants a depressed loser for a girlfriend?

“You know one day you’re going to marry me right?” he said last night. I just laughed.

I don’t know if thats true. All I know right now is that I’m in a thick fog. And I’m so very tired of feeling so sad.

 

 

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