This Time.

It has been roughly 4 months or so since I have been off my happy pills. And by happy pills I mean the lil notso tic-tacs that numbed absolutely every ounce of feelings I may have never even had had.

I didn’t necessarily choose to go off them either. Essentially, I ran out and needed another script, and my excuse of being ‘too busy’ was something I was starting to believe in. Eventually when I did have time to go into see the quack I instead didn’t. Something was different in me. This time, I didnt feel the need to fulfill another three months of dullness. Before as soon as I was nearing two weeks worth of meds I would have anxiety attacks if I couldn’t see the quack. In fact, I would usually try to get my medication a month before it would finish, but the pharmers always denied my request.

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This time, well this time it’s different. I’m not on any medication, only breakfast Plan B as needed. I am, believe it or not, feeling not just better, but actually feeling. And unlike right before the demise of Cait and onto the cycle of  pharmaceuticals my emotins aren’t from one extreme to another. Before I wouldn’t just have a quick cute cry, instead I would sob for hours upon hours truly being a sad bitch. When I was angry I would be flipping mother fucking raging, and when I was happy I was absolutely delirious. Now, these extremes are further from me now, and to be honest I am enjoying the distance.

When I first went on the rollercoaster ride of pharmaceutical blues, and found the right match for my craziness, I was incredibly thankful. It came when I truly needed it. I didn’t have anymore anxiety, and my saddness had dimished. However, after a year and somet ime being on these meds, I didn’t feel much of anything. I didn’t care much. I didn’t do anything. I was very much an empty shell. The person I once was, was somewhere over the rainbow.

This emptiness caused me to find another source of fulfillment. Alcohol. I have always been a fan of the liquid diet, but it became more extreme. I would have a bottle of wine a night, if not a bottle a six pack of beer, if not that then hard bar.

I would often go to bars to hang out with other sad saps like myself. Now, how sad is that, a lonely heart joining all the other lonely hearts out there and we aren’t even socializing. Just sitting side by side, at the bar, being just a bunch of fucking lonely wallflowers. Lonliness is not a nice feeling, but at least I could feel just a little bit again on my own terms.

Now, the problem with alcohol is it often leads to other things. For me, drugs and sex.

Drugs were something I never did sober, (for the most part). Sure, I may do a bump or pop a perc pre-party, but on any other standard Cait night I wouldn’t. However, when drinking every night became a standard night for me, the drugs occurred more frequently and instead of the utter sadness that alcohol would bring, drugs would bring me fucking ecstasy! It was phenominal. I was more alert, I was social, I was fucking happy and felt on top of the fucking world! I didn’t feel pain or sadness. That is, until I was hungover and coming off the ride. Those times, I was the lowest I could possibly feel.

 

When drinking and on drugs, sex was the next thing I craved. The best part was that the feelings weren’t just emotional, it was physical. Absolutely euphoria! My whole body was being seduced in this world o

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f lust, while in reality I was just being fucked. Fucked. Fucked and fucked.

But, this time friends, it honestly is different. Like I said, I’m off the medication. I like having my old ‘Cait feelies’ back. My cravings aren’t that of alcohol, drugs of sex.

This time instead,  I crave pizza.

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Substandard

I haven’t always made the wisest decisions. This certainly rings true in the last couple years or so. A lot of these naughty decisions were spur of the moments, selfish IOU’s to myself and reckless lack of ‘thinking’. BUT! Shit happens.

Some substandard choices I’ve made in my life time are:

*A year diet plan of breakfast Plan B.its-borted-18718439

*Sleeping with a college professor. I really wanted an A, but he gave me a…..wait for it….D! Kidding, I got an A. I will say I did deserve that A though.

*Drunk texting said Professor a few years later. What about? I vaguely recall, but I suspect it had to do with our college study sessions.

*Almost got escorted out of an Adam Carolla Comedy Show. BUT, I DIDN’T! Guess you could say, I was a couple bottles in on Mangria, and though my Canuck charm would lure him to join me for shots, but alas he shot me down and then some.

*Karaoke to Spice Girls. Just  no, no one should ever do it.

*The first thing I ever stole, when I was in college, was a piece of cardboard that said Fart Card. Fucking, dumbest thing you could ever buy, let alone steal.

So there are more to this list (obvi) like sleeping with a married man times a few, but we all know these harlot stories of mine. So lets fucking move on already.

As mentioned, I’ve made some naughty choices. But, all of these decisions I have made, have inspired me. They gave me stories to write to about, memories to share, and experiences to learn from. They have made me, me. Shaped who I have not become, but am currently becoming, and for me it’s exciting. (It’s like puberty all over again, except this time, when my panties make me look like I’ve been on a ketchup diet it’s a mother fucking blessing.)

Now, being off medication and reflecting on what was instead of what could have been, I’m discovering new attributes about myself and so far, it’s rather encouraging. I’m reading more, eating three meals a day (which was never a staple for me), and back to the old pen and paper (which then turns into this bloggidy blogg blog.)

I’m reaching out a little more as well. Not in sense of help me I’m poor….., BCoUDIjCUAARzCq.jpg-largebut in the sense that I am no more the anti-social, social butterfly I used to be. You see, before I was out. Always out. My home was a place of bed for me, that was it. Sure, it was beautiful, expensive furniture, nice photographs, but it was just a roof over my head. I was always working, and when not working, socializing, being out where I truly thought the lights were much brighter. I had lots of friends, different circles, always having a party, but it was ultimately an excuse not to go home to my sad, sad, life. This time I go out and I still very much enjoy it, but I am home too, even if at times those sad moments still creep up. I spend time with my dog, I have more conversations with my neighbors and get this…I even planted a flower. Now, this is coming from a girl whose father bought her a cactus and that even perished in my care. Granted, I forgot about it as soon as I planted it and it died, I’m also pretty sure Barrie pissed on it, but I planted it. Not a substandard choice, my friend, just a very substandard job of keeping the flowering little fucker alive. (RIP- flower).

Being able to look back on some of my many terrible decisions has allowed me to grow, (more so than the flower I planted). I don’t plan on making more awful choices, at least not intentionally. But decisions will be made, for better or for worse, and the better ones will be for the better, and the substandard ones for the better too.

Delicate

The last year or so has not been the most gracious for me. I don’t intend to dwell on the past or bore you with a recap of the casualty of myself. I instead would like to share with you, how far I have come, even if only it’s a fraction of the steps that are still waiting for my feet to touch,

A year has past since worn-out shoes and a wonderful love faded.

Two years since the prime of a wonderful love and a summer of snow.

Three or four since my grandmother and best friend stepped into the other room.

And five, well whats five anyways.

I’ve never been someone to dwell, never someone to cry, mourning was and in some instances still is foreign to me. It’s unkind, cruel and yet still full of love.

They come in threes, ‘they’ say. For me not just threes, but fours and fives and into the hundreds. When it rains, it pours and pours, and I hate the weight of rain, so I brush it off, and wait for a sunny day, forgetting that like wood, rain soaks into the the depths were not even the sunniest of days can try it out completely. Slowly it rots, seeps further, breaks away and suddenly…

Your broken. I was. I suppose, in some sense I had been for awhile, but finally somehow last year, I completely fell to pieces. I felt rotten inside, I felt used outside. I felt alone, and sad and oh the fucking sadness. Just speaking of it now, scares me. the feeling of utter sadness is something I would never wish on my worst enemy (and trust me I’ve unfortunately created some).

To avoid this feeling, I avoided all. I was prescribe many a prescription, many a time, and relived the routine for just over two years. Phantom feelings I had for that period. They were only distant memories. Happiness I knew was spoken with a smile, stress with physical sickness, sadness with sighs, and madness with only a raised voiced to announce my anger. But truly, I felt nothing. In fact, the only time I could feel was drinking and fucking. And even after the fact, sadness would creep back into my heavily medicated heart, where drugs saved me.

Now, I am ‘off-script’ as they say. Against doctors orders, but I was tired of people telling me what to do. I was tired of people giving me advice. I was tired of people trying to help me, and have pity on me and manufacturing me into this broken down harlot who is lost in this big wide world.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it happened on accident. The first day I ran out of my medication. I was worried. I don’t want sadness again. But I went through the day. The second day I open my bed side drawer knowing that I had nothing, but maybe I could find something to help me through the day, but only empty bottles. The third day I grew a little anxious, the fourth I was exhausted. A week went by and my body began to ache,  and sleeping was rough. I thought about heading to the pharmacy, but was truly only a thought. By two weeks my appetite increased and I spent more time reading. A month and my body still ached from time to time, but sleeping was becoming more bearable and my anxiety was quite minimal. But I did worry about the sadness coming back.

All this time, drinking seemed non-existent. I rarely drank and when I did it wasn’t because I felt the need to, it was because it was purely habit. It was normal for me to come home and finished a bottle of wine before bed. It was normal for me to forget to buy dog food, and instead buy beer. Fortunately, my dog’s food was full this time and there were less Asian ladies waddling their way to my blue bin for cans and bottles.

Me telling you all this doesn’t mean I no longer drink or I’m not drinking now. In fact, I’m double fisting with a tea and glass of wine, but I don’t feel the need to douse daily routines with spritzers and adult apple juices.

I recently have had two tests. NO! Not the kind of test where I’m tinkling on sticks or I have to make some uncomfortable phone calls to past lovers. THANKYOU!!!

The first test was someone who I used to think was so wonderful waltzED back into my life with his two left feet and endearing charm which I love and loathe simultaneously. Anxiety came, but left with him and her (Stay tuned for future blog). The second, an old friend invited me to a ‘program’ of some sort. I know, it was meant with trying to reach out, but no thank you. I am not where I was then, when they chose to take the exit out of my life. Trying to re-enter with the same notion they left with, is not acceptable. (I could go on about this but, alas, another blog, another time.)

A delicate situation. Truly, is what this all is. A fragile process with constant triggers. It’s just delicate. But I’ve been broken, broken and broken, so many times, that putting me back together won’t be easy, holding myself together will be even tougher. But alas, I present you….me. A little delicate right now, but it’s me.

These are small steps, I know, teeny tiny, but nonetheless, they are mine.

The Scarlet Letter

I always wondered what my epithet would be. Maybe I read too much on old mythology or my hard on for GoT has taken me to this point, I don’t know, but somehow I have gotten here. Now, I say I’ve ‘wondered’ what my epithet would be, in truth I know it. It’s both sad and a great honour that these titles aren’t made by ourselves. Epithets are made by the people. PLEBIANS UNITE!

Over the course of my life time I have acquired quite a few.

Cait The Great

Now, not only did this one rhyme and at the time I was high on living the bohemian life tucked under Edgar Allen Poe and Trojan Wars. But I was strong like bull. I fending off boys for my sisters, I used my strength to help around the house. I was a little tank. I was strong, independent at the ripe age of 8. And yes, morbidly and romantically I was entwined with Mr. Poe at a young age, but that’s a story for another time.

Few summers after, came…

Cait The Great White.

Why this stuck for a whole summer, I’ll never really know, but I blame it on my love for sharks and a white dress, I wore nearly every day until it because the color of a very dusty rose.

Cait The Jack of All Trades

I am sure many have acquired this name over their life times. For me, this came from my dance school. I excelled at every dance class I took. From ballet to jazz to tap to hip hop and whateverthefuck else I did. But, I was never the top dancer. I was second, always second to the top. Where I thought I would be the best in ballet, there was always someone taller, leaner and had all attributes a ballerina should have, with jazz there was a dancer with spirit fingers that were out of this world, with tap, well my sister kicked my ass in it. I was never the best, I was always second best. A jack of all trades, but master of none, and being master at always being second best is no epithet anyone should live by.

In college came, Cait The Native. No epithet really, but everything I did, everything I accomplished was because I was native. I got scholarships and bursaries, not because I was a starving artist, but because I was a red skinned girl who wore moccasins to class. It’s funny when I first applied to school they didn’t accept me. REJECTED! I was then advised to reapply, but under being native. Sure enough, I got in. Clearly applying as a white person is nothing to compared to a native.

Even my theatre ensemble native the fuck out of me. No fault of their own, and at the time it didn’t bother me too much. But in my mind, I was more than being native.

College passed, and into adulthood I came. And with a thunderous bang, came more epithets I could every imagine.

Cait The Harlot of New West60c99e26569147e9d9f58a8fc12c7831--funny-shit-funny-stuff

Cait The Homewrecker

Cait The Cheater

Cait The Vamp Whore (This one actually makes me laugh)26POP-master768

Cait The Stealer of Men

Cait The Husband Capturer

Cait The Tight and Easy

Cait The Untrusted

Cait The Trusted In Bumping Naughty Bits

Cait The Master Blower of the Love Whistle

Cait The Usurper of Men

Cait The No Hearted

Cait The Addict

Cait The Pill Popper

Cait The Reckless

Cait The Crazy

Cait The Used Up, Damaged Fucking Whore of a Person Who Deserves Nothing, but Loneliness and a Broken Heart.

Wait a minute. What happened here. What happened to all the good things I have done?e14cd95a68c4bbe95d829d6b48715722 (1) What happened to all the good qualities I possess? Or do I possess them no longer?

I have always been loyal to those I love, I’ve always put the ones I care about before me. I’ve invested in friendships and relationships financially, emotionally, mentally. But here I am. Cait The Girl With The Scarlet Letter. Cait the Native is starting to sound a lot more desirable now.

I have certainly done stupid things, but I am not stupid. People talk, rumours run rapid, and when you aren’t there to defend yourself, people start to believe these rumours. It’s sad, it’s hurtful, it’s something I would never wish on anyone. I lost a lot of important people in my life over this. And I am not trying to pass blame to the masses and the gossip king and queen in town. I am not, but I am not there. And although these rumours are blended with truths and I am sure exaggerations, and certainly lies, I am not there.

I had a relationship with someone who was married. I knew it was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but in those moments of our selfishness it felt right. I didn’t intend to destroy a family, he didn’t intend for anyone to find out, nothing was intended. Now, because of this, long time girlfriends don’t trust me around their men, I am now considered a homewrecker.

I am very open about my sex-capades. I talk about banging this person and another 14b986d022db146fc633a6a37053ae27person, I talk about infidelity, orgies, I talk and talk and talk. I realized that me being so open about this had people define me as this skeeze queen. True, through no fault but my own, I joked about my sexual encounters. All the time. It’s unfortunate really. I do what all my male single friends did, but I am the whore.

Now, people expect me of this. I once invited a friend out to meet me at a bar. I was there with some co-workers and other lonely hearts enjoying the night. It was quite a ways a way for this bloke to come out, but I offered to pay for his cab ride, even offered him to crash at my place if need be. He came and was terribly upset that I was going home with another lad. I apologized, I felt terrible, but my intentions were intentions of catching up, having some drinks and hanging out. His intentions were different. I didn’t realize this until I received a 20 minute lecture on being a terrible person and leading on men. Apparently this is a trait I have. God forbid me to invite a boy out and not put out.

It’s because I am more than this. I know I am more than this. But as mentioned before rumours run rapid, and when all the rumours are about you, and you aren’t there to defend yourself you start to believe them. I know I did. Maybe this bloke was right. My vagina is friendly to all!! Maybe the right thing for me to do was fuck the shit out of him. After all he came all this way thinking so why not deliver?

Maybe I am a piece a shit. Maybe I am all those names everyone seems to know me by now. If that’s the case, I should wear each and everyone of those fucking names proudly, right?

Like I said, I’ve done stupid things, but I am not stupid. I know there is more to me, than just an epithet.

Case of the Ex

We are exes for a reason. We fell in love, tried, then as time went on, we fell out of love. Time changes, people change, love fades, but you sir, I still have love for you and it will always be unconditionally so.

You met me when I was just a girl. Sure I was a barely legal hitting up the college scene tumblr_m06nyh5rOL1r67iiqo2_250in this beautiful city, but nonetheless a girl. I didn’t know how taxes worked, I still asked my mom for help with homework, I slept with a bed full of teddy bears, and I still drew hearts over every single fucking photo with Ewan McGregor. (sigh, such a babe).

You were older, only by a few years, you weren’t neither a man nor a boy. You at this time, is what I would call a ‘man-child’. You worked at Blockbuster, dropped out of school, lived at home with mom and pops. You were independent, but couldn’t quite make it out in the world solo.

Then Girl and Man-child met.

I remember it vividly.

I remember the couple weeks that followed.

I remember the first 8 months we were together.

I remember our 8 years together.

I remember them all, and I remember them well.

You and I, Sir, we certainly have been through a lot. Infidelity, financial crisis, deaths, starting/attempting to have a family, health scares, celebrations and everything else that comes with being in your favourite person’s life. We really have been through it all.

What I am trying to say in all of this me reminiscing is thank you. You have seen me at my worst, and you have seen me at my best. And in a time like this, when I am feeling lower than ever, when death is constantly teasing me, you sir, you are still here. After 10 fucking years you are still here. And I know it probably seems crazy that I am somewhat taken aback by this, but some friends have all but left me over the last couple months, They don’t like the person I have become, they don’t like the choices I make, and so in turn, instead of trying to aid me in becoming my old happy self again, they have left me. But you, you Sir are still here.

I know it hurts you to see me struggling. But you have helped me so much. You answer my phone calls when I just need someone to talk to, you check in with me, you help me with Barrie, you are more than just an ex who has become a friend. You are such an integral part of my life, you are my family, and I’ll forever love you for it.

You know, sometimes, I think back and I wonder why we didn’t work. This is silly because you and I know why. We were just too different. We certainly put in a valiant effort. If 8 years together doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does.

When we decided to part ways. It was sad. I was sad because you were my first love, and although I still loved you, I was no longer in love with you. It wasn’t fair to you for me to tag along trying to be something I wasn’t, trying to feel something I couldn’t. I remember I was quite erratic. One day I wanted to be with you, and the next I was glad we parted. But you Sir, you said we needed to do this. If we are meant to be it will happen again. And so at some point we tried again, and realized quite quickly that perhaps its best we move on. I am glad we made this choice.

I love how now, we are so open with each other, that I can call you when I’m doing a walk of shame home. Usually, our conversation starts off with “Sir, I’ve done it again….” Then followed by laughter and potentially a life lesson. I love that you let me help you with your dating profile and you update me on your love life, or lack there of for that matter. (KIDDING!!!). I love that we aren’t even fuck buddies, which is pretty impressive for me since 99.9% of all my male friends, I’ve banged. I love that you have seen me grow from just a girl into a woman. Mostly, I love that you still love me, you accept me for all my flaws, you are willing to put in the effort to help me get better, you are a true friend.

With all my heart, with all my love,

Thank you Sir,

Cait

An Open Letter

Dear Friends, Family, all those who I love, and all you strangers out there,

Please know I am really trying. I am trying to make it on my own in this big beautiful world, but times are difficult now. You all know I have many issues, I’m depressed, I have severe anxiety, I’m bulimic, I drink all the time, and I pop pills like tic tacs. Straight up, I’m fucked up. I’ve made shitty choices, done stupid stuff, hurt the ones I loved, I am all but for caring anymore.

I thought I hit rock bottom last year, but it seems as though I keep falling, and the ones I thought would catch me, have distanced themselves. They are tired of seeing me fall, and tired of carrying my weight. I am very saddened by this, but I suppose I understand.

I can brush it off, I’m a woman with scraped knees, bruised soul and a heart that is in a never ending state of always breaking.

To my family back home. You know I love you all, very much so. But please, it is very hard for me to be away. I am sad I have never met my little niece, I am remorseful that I can’t be there for all your birthdays and life celebrations, I am constantly feeling guilt for not being able to be there all the time. But please know I am, I am always here, a phone call away, I am always here. But please understand, I love this city. I came out here when I was 17, with big dreams and aspirations. Now, I am almost 30, those dreams and aspirations haven’t left me yet. But it takes time. I also have priorities. I have my boy Barrie and my little kitty Olive to take care of. I have friends I take care of out here. Don’t worry, I am figuring out how to take care of myself, but again it takes time, patience, and support from all of you.

I talked to two people today, both who I love dearly. They both expressed their concern for my well-being. More so in the sense, that all my bad habits will ultimately lead to my demise. Please don’t think that way. Everyone goes sometime, whatever will be will be, but I am trying to change. I am trying to die an old lady, warm in my bed. I will admit to this however. Suicide is a constant tease for me. Maybe death isn’t so boring, maybe it’s a wondrous thing after all. I would be able to see my grandma again and my best friend. I would be able to tell them how much I love them and how much I missed them, and how happy I am.

I almost ended my time here once. This was in the fall of last year. I was no longer on medication at this point. I stopped drinking, and wasn’t doing drugs. I was really trying to be my old self again. I had fallen in love, and it was very hard for me to watch the one I loved so dearly move on. I was so sad, I did everything he wanted, I changed my ways for him. Anyways, this particular night I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I had all these thoughts running inside my head. What did I do wrong? How can we go back to what we had before? What am I doing? I always fuck everything up!!!

11136654_10100458342870173_3235526434844555125_nI got out of bed. Walked into the kitchen, opened the drawer, and grabbed a pair of scissors. Blade to my wrist, eyes closed, tears coming down and just as I felt my wrist becoming warm with liquid, I heard a whimper. Barrie. I turned around and he just stood there whimpering, looking at me. I dropped the scissors, grabbed a cloth, and went over to him. Barrie, my boy, he knew I was sad. He knew I was hurting, and out of everyone in my life, he was always there for me. I couldn’t leave him. He saved me. I can honestly say, if I didn’t have him in my life, I wouldn’t be here right now. And I still have moments where I look at the tiny scar on my wrist and I want to be embraced my death itself, but Barrie. My boy Barrie. He keeps me here.

Now, please don’t be sad for me friends, I’m okay. I’m always okay. All I ask is you for you to understand I am trying, I really am. But it gets harder, the more I am being pleaded to stop, and begged to come back east. I need to do this. I need to get through this, Barrie and I.

Always,

Cait

Waterproof Make Up is Overrated

Folks, waterproof make up is overrated. This past week has put it to the test, and it failed miserably. Alright, now I’ll fess up with how I know this.

Last year was very up and down for me, I had my good days, I had my bad days and towards the end of the year most of my days were good days. So good they were wonderful. I was branching out with different career opportunities, I wasn’t partying nearly as much, Barrie and I were meeting lots of canine friends, and my ‘not’ relationship was finding itself again.

But I don’t know what happened. It was like 2017 smacked the side of my head and said hey there little lady….new year, same you, you sad sack of shit…. (Insert sad/annoyed emoji). Since January, I’ve been nothing but overthinking, and feeling. And ya’ll know I strongly dislike the idea of feeling, having feelings, caring for things etc. And overthinking brings on anxiety, and anxiety brings on thoughts that may or may not be true, which brings on more anxiety because I don’t know whether they are or not, which brings on sadness and utter defeat. I lose.

I’m not keeping track but I’ve probably cried at least 3 to 4 times a day, everyday since the new year. In the morning I cry, on my way to work I cry (sometimes at work I cry), my drive from work I cry and in bed I cry. I cry, I cry, I cry, like a big baby. I can’t control it. I’ve cried so much I am surprised my tear ducts haven’t dried up. Part of me thinks all this waterworks stuff has to do with me not crying or even having actual feelings for years and years. I was ‘dead’ inside then, now I am alive and it is so not worth it. Not even in the least bit.

I don’t want to be awake. Mostly I don’t want to be awake when I am alone. It’s a sad place to be. Don’t be alarmed, this is not to say I don’t want to exist, but I would rather be sleeping, just get lost in some sort of Slumberland, where I am not a depressed individual. Instead, I am Cait The Lovely! Who rides a unicorn and has a cotton candy bed!!! Unfortunately reality doesn’t allow for such pleasures.

sadpandaLately I have been leaving my house early for work. Sometimes 2 to 3 hours before work. I leave early because I don’t want to be home. I then find a place to grab a coffee, which I may or may not drink, and I drive around. Driving used to make me feel better. In some truth it still does. But I cry folks, I cry and cry and cry and before I know it I look like a panda. Mascara and eyeliner down my face, perhaps I look more like a sad mime, a disgruntled Beetlejuice, Morticia Addams, one of the Kardashians. Fuck, I don’t know, what ever I look like, well I am sure there is a meme out there somewhere for it.

I’m losing myself friends, I’m drowning in tears that are surely falling for ridiculous reasons. I’m lost in all this sappy and mushy shit. Emotions are exhausting, feelings are suffocating, and when they are placed inside my used-to-be hollow self… … …well, maybe I just shouldn’t wear make up anymore.