My Memory Is So Good I Know With Absolute Certainty What I Had For Dinner On June 4th, 1996 And It Was Delicious

Memory is… one of a suite of higher or ‘executive’ brain functions hobbled by depression.
“Memory Loss and the Brain”, Daniel Pendick (1991)

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“The problem is that eyewitness acounts, while more convincing than hearsay accounts, are not always reliable. Research on eyewitness testimony is very clear about this fact: Observations can vary and err as a function of a variety of factors such as prejudice, temporary expectations, the types of details being observed, and stress. It is very easy, in other words, for one’s observations (and one’s memories about observations) to be distorted or flat-out wrong.”
“Philisophical Issues in Journalism”, edited by Elliot Cohen (1992); ‘Understanding Errors and Biases That Can Affect Journalists’ by Holly Stocking and Paget Gross

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Who am I?
What am I doing?
Where am I going?
Where have I been?
Why am I here?
— My Five W’s.

Manic depression, left untreated, will steal… your life in more ways than the obvious. We know Depression fucks with our memories. A good man with some heavy responsibility — Bryan — recently remarked on the clarity of my memories, he wrote: “I know for me I would have a really hard time putting the detail into my history that you do. A lot of it with me right now is muddled in a medicated haze that doesn’t allow me the clarity to remember my work history fully let alone some of the parts of my past…”

But my memory sucks. There are — albeit very rare — days, times, specific moments when I get so frustrated about losing words I want to grab my keyboard and start bashing it against my desk. A few weeks ago it actually did happen to my printer. Almost always the feeling comes from the frustration of not being able to find something I think should be obvious, a piece of paper I just put down, or a shoe, my wallet, but most often it’s a thought or a memory.

Even beyond the eighteen-years of being unmedicated, living the life I did — more than 30 different homes before I was twenty, clinical depression since I was nine — has left me unable to recognize people or to remember the names of people who aren’t in my life constantly. I’ve known Richard for three years, only recently have I been able to remember his last name. I still couldn’t tell you for sure how it’s spelled. My little brother has been dating the same girl for two years, they’re now living together, I’ve walked past her in the street without seeing her.

And yet, I can do this: “My memory has become, or has it always been? like a seive.” I wrote that in 1991, sitting on my bare mattress in a rooming house two blocks down from the Soviet embassy in Ottawa (there’s no spellcheck on a Bic pen). “Or”, I continued, “is it merely selective with the switchman asleep, with the dial continuously set to purge?” How do I know it was 1991 when I wrote that? How can I be so fucking sure when my memory has so many huge holes in it? Because I have dated everything I’ve written from 1987 until right now. Date, time of completion and usually with a little signature to boot.

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Posted in Bipolar, Canada, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Ottawa, Punk, Salted Lists | 12 Comments

Testing An Epiphany And Having A Revelation While Losing Ten Pounds In Two Days On The Fashion Model Glamour Diet


“Maligne Lake, Jasper Park”, Oil On Canvas — by Lawren S. Harris (1885-1970), scanned from a postcard.

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There exists an obvious fact that seems utterly moral: namely, that a man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them. One has to pay something. A man who has become conscious of the absurd is forever bound to it. A man devoid of hope and conscious of being so has ceased to belong to the future. That is natural. But it is just as natural that he should strive to escape the universe of which he is the creator.”
Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus” (1942) 

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Don’t go to church on Sunday,
don’t get down on my knees and pray
Don’t memorize the books of the bible,
got my own special way
I know Jesus loves me,
maybe just a little bit more
I get down on my knees every Sunday,
at Zarelda Lee’s candy store
Got to be a Chocolate Jesus,
make me feel so good inside
Got to be a Chocolate Jesus,
keep me satisfied.
“Chocolate Jesus”; ‘Mule Variations’, Tom Waits (1999)

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I’ve been ill for almost six days now… I’m not nearly as bad off as I was from Friday to Sunday, but things still aren’t right. I think I’m actually in a recovery mode from the weekend, where I lost almost eight pounds in two days — or a little over ten pounds, depending on the scale. Most of that, I’m sure, was going from slightly over-hydrated to being dehydrated as every little thing that went in came violently and explosively back forty-five minutes later. It sort of started on Wednesday when a friend took me to see “Live Free Or Die Hard”, which was awesome… except for Kevin Smith, which was weird. But then it started for real on Friday with a really sharp pain just below my belly button.

On any given day I will easily go through 16 litres of fluid, which breaks down to about 14L of water or water with a bit of lemon, then 1.5L of milk* and .5L of diet pop. But I can go a lot higher. I drink a lot, I think I would even if I wasn’t pounding 2100mgs of Lithium (salt) into my body everyday, but in order for the pills to work I have to be hydrated. Getting dehydrated while on Lithium is dangerous and a good way to experience a majority of the wonderful side effects… if you’re getting the side effects of Lithium, try drinking at least a Litre of water every hour. Fixes everything right up.

So in almost two years I haven’t gone anywhere without water. The twelve hours on Friday are the longest I’ve gone without a drink since sometime in 2002, over the whole weekend I may have had three regular drinks and this is what I’ve learned… given the right circumstances I’d sell my family for a glass of water. I’d toss in all the kids in my neighbourhood if it had ice.

When I write “through 16L”, I mean “through”. My doctor has requested I perform a “24-hour urine test” on a number of occasions, but the hospital clinic doesn’t have enough 2L containers for me. According to the nurse on the last occasion, handing out one jug is normal. Sometimes two. But — because I kept running out of containers — the last time I did The Test she gave me every container they had, seven of them for a total of 14L of urine to analyze. According to my doctor, to work the test requires a sample from the full 24 hours. Eighteen hours into the last test all seven containers were full. I drink a lot. I tell people that and they relate it to their own experience where “a lot” would be a bit of juice with their coffee over breakfast. In the two hours I’ve been “working” on this post I’ve drunk two regular glasses of 1% milk and 3L of ice water with some fresh lemon.

Then there were the huge streams of vomit… you always think you’re ready, but you never are. I almost got the whole thing on film but I forgot where I put my camera (couch, under a pillow). The last time I was close to being this sick was years ago, but I can remember having an epiphany while throwing up into my toilet and telling myself then I would never, ever vomit into a toilet again. From now on it’s bathtubs.

Why stare at a pubic hair or a stain while you’re so vulnerable, when a bathtub is relatively self-cleaning with the tap on, and the drain is large enough for “everything”. Plus, and this was a revelation, if you turn the shower on the cold water on your hands and head really makes things better in a way I can’t even describe… and it’s all clean. Seriously, give it a shot next time…

*a couple of weeks ago, in the time between walking through the door and putting the jug in the fridge, I went through nearly 3L of 1% milk. Yes, I drink out of the jug.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Humor, Humour, Lithium, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Punk | 4 Comments

UmBiPMaD Stories: Fred Nietzsche Was My 240lb Solvent-Huffing Ex-Nazi Rooming-House Neighbour And Friend

To predict the behaviour of ordinary people in advance, you only have to assume that they will always try to escape a disagreeable situation with the smallest possible expenditure of intelligence.
Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), German Philosopher

Dave killed my rabbit.
Fred Nietzsche, Rooming House Neighbour, Spadina Street, Ottawa

UmBiPMaD: Unmedicated BiPolar Manic Depressive Stories
It’s an acronym I came up with in 1992, back when I didn’t understand bipolar and manic depression meant the same thing. I spent at least eighteen years of my life having a disease which was untreated so I’m going to start writing a little more about this period in my life. Some of these will be funny, some won’t.

The first time I met “Wild Bill” was when he woke me up to tell me our front porch was on fire. It wasn’t, yet, but would have been if he hadn’t discovered the smoke. I had been asleep in my room, which faced the street in front. My room, when Bill* woke me up by banging on my door, had been full of smoke. None of the three fire extinguishers on our floor worked, so we doused the smoke and embers using cups and pots. Someone had stuffed a lit cigarette into the rotting wood.

The next time I met Bill was when he knocked on my door and politely asked if I had any bug spray so he could “kill some flies”. When I said no he said my can of air freshener would do. For some reason that’s pretty much how William “Wild Bill” Fred Nietzsche — a 5’10”, 240lb, 50-year old, balding, heavily tattooed, ex-Nazi White Supremacist, former Hell’s Angel associate, solvent huffing, recovering alcoholic — and I became friends.

Most rooming houses, the ones I lived in anyway, operate somewhat like a prison. You never touch another guys stuff without permission and without understanding that with permission, eventually, you had to reciprocate. Then there’s cigarettes… it’s understood that if you “borrow” one, you pay it back ASAP. The most important thing about living in a rooming house is you do everything within your ability not to create resentment or envy in the other roomers. I’ve lived in some pretty “upscale” rooming houses as well and this also applies there. It’s just the repercussions that differ… I lived in one place where a Guy bashed a Dude three times in the head with a pot because Dude put a cigarette out in Guy’s beer and laughed about it. Dude took several stitches for that.

Bill had spent enough time Living that he knew the rules. So when he brought back the Glade, he brought me three Heavy Metal Magazines… because he had seen the stack of news magazines (plus a lot of Maxim’s) on my floor. So we started exchanging magazines. Living in a rooming house, in a lot of ways, is like constantly having people roaming around in your home. You go to take a shower, but Big Foot Gus is in there, and you know he’ll be another twenty minutes so there goes the idea of being on time to meet your girlfriend… and the phone is two blocks away. Or you go into the kitchen and No Neck Steve is in there with his mom and she’s crying but, fucking hell, you’re really hungry and you know you’ve got spaghetti in the cupboard and some sauce your girlfriend left… fucking Jesus fucking Steve and his mom again.

When Bill huffed (spray an aerosol product into a plastic bag, inhale the fumes, die an early brain death) his pupils would fix. He had a tiny b+w TV that he’d stare at for hours while doing endless reps with a 100lb dumbbell. His pain centre would get so fried that he could do it for as long as he was high, as a result his arms were as thick or thicker than my thighs. When he came back from the “high” he would grab his ten-speed and head out to the Ottawa River for a long swim. Now… I used to steal stuff. When I was a teenage Punk I walked into a camera store and walked out with three lenses for a friend of mine. Even ten years later, living on Spadina Street, I would be up writing at 4am when the paper delivery dudes did their rounds, so I would go down to the convenience store on the corner and grab a paper. Relatively small time stuff.

One night, about 3am, there was a tapping at my window. It was the police. A lot of police. When I opened the door they piled into the corridor… there were actual SWAT types mixed in with the Regular Cops. They start banging on doors until they found Bill and he’s yelling out “you’ve got no probable cause, there’s no probable cause”… he and his buddy Dave — an unmedicated schizophrenic recently released from the Ottawa General Hospital psych ward — had stolen six racks of bread out of the back of a delivery truck. Somehow Bill convinced the cops to leave empty handed. A couple of days later we went to the new Hintonburg Public Library and I helped Bill get his first library card… John D. MacDonald and Louis L’Amour were his favourites.

While we were gone Dave had killed and skinned Bill’s pet rabbit, nailed the skin to the wall and was trying to cook the carcass on a hot-plate in Bill’s room. Bill was teary for a week. The worst thing I’ve ever done to a neighbour in a rooming house was use two of his new high-end pots to cook beans and soup. While they were simmering I left with a friend for the evening. The worst part was I let someone else take the fall… New-Pot Dude was huge, and angry and I was about seventeen and I really had forgotten about the pots at first…

When I left Ottawa in 1998 Bill had finally gotten on disability and had moved into a nice apartment where he could raise goldfish. I came back to apartment-sit for my brother in 2001 and — completely by accident — found Bill selling his stuff out of a grocery cart so he could get to a treatment centre somewhere, which was a common bullshit story. I was broke but we hung out for a little while over Coke and chips. He was about half his former size… he had stopped huffing while he was in the hospital.

Anyway…. I never saw Bill after that — I do miss him occasionally, he had some fantastic adventure stories. They’ve almost finished cleaning up Hintonburg. No more hookers on the corner, no more people shooting up in the park, no more crack dealers next to the convenience store. I walked past the rooming house last fall, they’ve got some new windows, a new porch and a second storey deck, but it’s still a rooming house.

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*I started thinking about Bill, for some reason, when I left a response on a totally different subject on Dead Robot‘s blog… weird.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar, Canada, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Health, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Ottawa, Poverty, Punk, UmBiPMaD Stories | 8 Comments

A New Gaping Hole In My Mouth Reveals Nothing About My Personal Recovery But The Photo Is So Totally Worth Seeing

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“The tooth fairy comes when a child has lost a tooth. Commonly, she is very small, and she comes in the middle of the night. The child is to leave the tooth under his/her pillow, so that the tooth fairy can take it during her visit. Once she has taken the tooth, she leaves monetary reimbursement under the pillow, anything from ten cents to a dollar. (This action is done by a parent.) The teeth are then taken to her tower, and used for her purposes.”
The Modern Myth of The Common Tooth Fairy

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The trout leaps high —
below him, in the river bottom,
clouds fly by.
“The World Upside Down”, Onitsura

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Crowned seven years ago my right, back, top molar finally succumbed to a cavity just under the gum line. It would have cost $2500 to repair, and even then would only — maybe — have lasted another few years. The problems magnified a few months ago when a flossing accident resulted in an abscess around the tooth. I thought the antibiotics cured that problem, but apparently not.

I have to say — except for the week I spent taking care of the abscess — at no point in the past few months did my tooth hurt. While Dr. Tiny Fingers was working in my mouth I was so numb I was falling asleep while he filled a small cavity on another tooth — this is something I do a lot in the dentist’s chair… they hate it. The actual extraction only took a minute, maybe ninety seconds, this may seem redundant but it felt like something was being removed from my jaw. The roots of the tooth looked close to an inch long. Very odd sensation. As easy as the whole procedure was it’s not something I ever want to feel again. If it ever gets to this point again I’ll pay the $2500 for the next tooth. But floss and fluoride rinse are my new best friends.

So now there’s a huge space in my mouth, I’ve already noticed a difference when I breathe. I talked to someone who had two teeth removed a few years ago and she thinks her speech has changed significantly. I haven’t spoken enough yet to notice if there’s a difference. I did notice that when I suck in my cheeks the right side slips in just a little more than the left… but that could be bullshit. But the weirdest thing, of course, is running my tongue over the empty, and massive, space.

Whatever purposes the Tooth Fairy has in store for my gi-normous tooth she should know that it served me well during our — too brief — association together. It stood up to some pretty intense abuse back in the day, surviving at least three brawls and more than a few pucks.

Holy, fuck that’s a cool photo though. That’s actually a giant pus-filled cyst-sack hanging off that badass MoFo.

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...thanks.

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Posted in crazy people with no pants, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Photography, Poverty | 27 Comments

A Lying Maoist Revolutionary Con Artist Stole My Family And All He Left Me With Was A Crappy Bike

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In a hut of mud and fire / Sits this single man — “Not to want / Money, to want a life in the world, / To want no trinkets on my name” — / And he was rich; his life lives where / Death cannot go; his honor stares / At the sun.

The fawn sleeps, The little winds / Ruffle the earth’s green hair. It is / Wonderful to live. My sword rusts / In the pleasant rain. I shall not think / Anymore. I touch the face of my friend; / He shows his dirty teeth as he scratches / At a flea — and we grin. It is warm / And the rice stirs usefully in our bellies.

The fawn raises its head — the sun floods / Its soft eye with the kingdoms of life — / I think we should all go to sleep now, / And not care anymore.
“Gautama In The Deer Park At Benares”, Kenneth Patchen

Living is
a thing you do
now or never —
which do you?
“Living is –“, Piet Hein

I lived with my father for eight years, but I have no memories of him. I’ve only ever seen two photos of us together, and they were taken within moments of each other. I was eight when my mother left him and took my little brother and I away. The next time I saw him was when I was fifteen, I took a train to the city where I grew up. When I got to the station I walked right past him because I had no idea what he looked like. As far as I know — after I turned around and walked back to him — that was the first time I shook my fathers hand.

When I was a child my father believed he was a great man who was in the middle of a great revolution, and things get sacrificed during revolutions. Like family. Or maybe — as he tells the story now — he was just a magazine publisher who had unwittingly acquired a loyal and slightly depraved following of Marxist rebels intent on taking over… something. Whatever. The truth is pretty simple, however, my father told lies that corrupted and nearly killed the people who trusted him.

At fifteen, when I got off the train, I knew I had two sisters I had never met. They would have been three and four — I think. During the mini-tour my father gave me of my ‘home town’ I asked about seeing them, as we were within sight of their home. He told me their mother had issues about my visiting and that it wouldn’t be a good time right then. Or that they were busy. Whatever. He then brought me to his office where I waited in the lobby reading a Reader’s Digest for thirty minutes while he made some phonecalls. Later, in the restaurant, he introduced me to the waitress as “his son”. It was the first time I remember him saying that. I’m still stunned as to how it made me feel. That day we spent two hours together. It was the last time I’d see him for sixteen years.

My sisters grew up not knowing they had brothers because of my father’s lies. He only told them when it became inevitable that my brother and I were going to make an effort to connect with them. He gave them a red three-ring folder. In it he explained to them — in photos and an almost poetic lilt to the words — about my brother and I in a format very reminiscent to something OXFAM would send out. Little black and white photos neatly laid out on white paper, large type in non-serif font. My sisters were in their mid-teens when they found out their father told lies.

My younger brother went first. He stayed with our sisters and their mother for a few weeks. The last straw for my mother, the thing that finally ended her marriage, was that her good friend Edie had become pregnant with my fathers child. After Edie had given birth to Eric she left for Alberta. My father forgot to put Eric into the red three-ring folder. But my brother and I knew. And my brother — without knowing it had been a secret — told our sisters about Eric and then things really started to fall apart.

So my father lied to me about the mother of my sisters not wanting to see me. After meeting her I found out my father had lied to me when I had visited, that she wanted a relationship with my brother and I — I’m not sure right now if she knew about Eric. My father lied-by-omission to my sisters about their three brothers.

I want this to be over. Everything, EVERYTHING… everything in my life comes from the lies my father started telling before I was borne. My father lied to my mother to get her to marry him; my father lied to his friends and family and caused them to follow him into a Revolution he had no intention of ever fighting; my father lied to my mother’s friend and then came Eric; my father lied to his next girlfriend and then came my sisters; my father lied to them and to me and to my brothers and denied us a family… I need this to be over because my fathers’ lies have nearly killed me, nearly killed my youngest sister, have created a situation where I’ll never know my youngest brother and he’ll never know us. My father’s own brothers, most of them, have only recently started to communicate with him. The people who believed in him, the people who raised me, are still living in the horrors that he put them into.

When we were together, when I was a child and the Revolutionaries still Believed, I was given a bike. It was the most expensive gift ever given out in the eight years of our little Commune. And I rode the fuck out of that silver thing with the knobby tires up and down our street. The only two photos I’ve seen of my father and I and my brother and my mom all together — the ones taken within moments of each other — were taken the same week. That one week, out of eight years, was the week my father decided to be a father. He was trying to prove to my mother, his wife, that he could do the job. He was trying to prove to his wife he could be a husband… because the previous week was when Eric’s mother told the Group she was pregnant with his child.

My fathers contribution to my life has been lies after lies after lies after lies after lies after lies, and I need it to stop.

I’ve been living in my fathers lies and I just need to stop.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar, Clinical Depression, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Father, Health, Lithium, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Poverty, Punk, Salted Truths | 22 Comments

When You Spend 6570 Consecutive Days Wanting To Kill Yourself The Little Things Get Neglected… Like Dental Hygiene.

Currently, access to dental care is mostly limited to those with jobs that provide private insurance benefits, or can afford to pay for treatment out of pocket. Many on low incomes do not receive dental benefits and cannot afford regular dental fees, or even the lesser fees at several low-cost clinics in the city.
“…[Ontario] Community and Social Services Minister Madeleine Meilleur said… Ontario cannot afford to provide the dental equivalent of medicare on its own.”
Moira Welsh, The Toronto Star, Feb 22, 2007

The paramount responsibility of a dentist is to the health and well-being of patients.
02. Commit to the highest level of professionalism by maintaining current competency.
03. Respect the right of patients to be cared for by the dentist of their choice.
04. Provide timely and competent care that is consistent with the standards of the profession.
07. Make the well-being of patients the primary consideration when making referrals to other health-care workers.
Four of the Fourteen Royal College Of Dental Surgeons Of
Ontario Codes Of Ethics

Brush, brush, brush your teeth, at least two times a day.
Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, fighting tooth decay.
Floss, floss, floss your teeth, every single day.
Gently, gently, gently, gently, whisking Plaque away.
Rinse, rinse, rinse your teeth, every single day.
Swishing, swishing, swishing, swishing, fighting tooth decay.
“Brush Your Teeth” (sung to “Row, Row, Row your Boat”)

My latest dentist believes I need two teeth pulled. I’m pretty sure he also believes I am somewhat retarded for not seeing him, or another dentist, sooner. A couple of months ago I cut my right-top-back gum while flossing when thinking. This led to a really, really painful abscess and a ten-day penicillin treatment. Which, apparently, should have been quickly followed by a trip to the dentist because, Surprise, the infection has started to spread into my jaw. I figured that, since the pain had stopped, the infection must have gone away but, apparently, that adjustment I’ve had to make in my chewing habits due to an uncomfortable feeling in that particular tooth should have been a hint that something was continuing to be wrong. Old habits are fucking near impossible to break, especially when you don’t know you’ve got them.

I stopped smoking last January (2006), that was hard. I stopped going to the dentist in 1988, that was surprisingly easy… you just stop making the call, then you stop thinking about the dentist. One of the things my mom did while I spent my eighteen years in the Wilderness was to insist on a once a year dentist appointment, which always led to a second visit where a filling or two was applied. But, during the time I was living in Ottawa and trying to concentrate on feeding myself and not get evicted and maybe put together enough money for a small pack of cigarettes, going to The Dentist — like going to see any other type of doctor — was not something I considered “Top Of The List” important.

When I started working at the Trade Magazine in Toronto in 1999, it took me six months to figure out there was a dental plan. Three months later, as I was in the process of quitting, I still hadn’t used it. Caring for yourself, looking after your physical health, just isn’t a priority for someone who constantly wants to die. It wasn’t like I was in pain, my teeth were usually in pretty good shape, but I wasn’t flossing or rinsing or brushing three times a day either. In fact, it’s a little difficult to afford Fluoride Rinse and Mouthwash when you’ve only got $120 in available cash at the beginning of the month, and Food Banks don’t give out mouth-care products.

Actually… there is a funny story in this involving Jello Biafra and a root canal that I’ll write about later on. Anyway. So in 2000 — while working at a CellPhone Company — I finally started seeing a dentist with my Private Insurance paying for it, and he filled and filled my teeth and crowned another, and it was becoming a regular thing… but then I quit my cushy job and basically went back to living in inappropriate places and doing silly things while looking for something to eat and someplace to sleep. So I stopped seeing the dentist… I can still hear the receptionist chiding me over voicemail about neglecting my dental hygiene.

Going to a doctor on a regular schedule is something we train ourselves to do… or, in my case, not to do. Between 1988 and last year I didn’t have a family doctor. If I wasn’t feeling well I’d go to the Emergency Room for a day or spend eight hours in a Free Clinic. But last year I managed to get in with a family doctor who was just starting up in this region, and two years ago — with my Disability Insurance in my hand — I managed to find a good dentist. And he filled and filled my teeth and lectured at great length… but then he stopped taking any patients on Disability. So I was out the door. Then, I found, no one in this region was accepting patients on Disability. So I stopped going to the dentist… again. Because that’s easy.

Try starting smoking… it’s ugly and it tastes disgusting and it’s just not worth it. But you focus past that because Nicotine is Good. Now try starting to see a dentist. It’s a hassle, and it mostly hurts in ways you never experience anywhere else, and it’s not like my teeth were hurting when I went into the office so it’s easy not to see a dentist when there’s none available and it’s a hassle to find one that will take your insurance then there’s finding a ride and holy shit do I have to open the Yellow Pages? Could this be more complicated? It’s hard to start smoking, it’s nearly impossible to stop. It’s hard to get to a doctor when you’re untreated, it’s very easy to stop seeing one because by the time you get treated you’ve been without one for so long you’ve learned to do without until it hurts so bad you have to.

I spent half my life thinking dying was the most important thing I could do… or — at least — that dying was my most likely accomplishment. What the fuck did I care about what shape my teeth were in? Who knew, ten years ago or fifteen years ago that I’d be here ten years later or fifteen years later needing to have a tooth pulled so my jaw doesn’t get infected which will require even more surgery? When you spend so much time untreated, unmedicated, life takes on new meanings, new understandings come into focus… you start doing without things Others consider essential. For some of us it’s pants. For others it’s shaving. For most of us it’s the dentist and dealing with that strange purple mole that popped up on our back.

It’s hard enough dealing with this shit when I’ve been medicated for two years, having a Welfare System that wants to give you as little as possible without Them being directly responsible for your death and a Disability System which can’t get it together long enough to force Dentists to deal with the Disabled just makes the whole exercise futile.

I’ve seen my family doctor once in the past year, and that was the initial appointment. Until I went to see my new dentist a few days ago it had been about fourteen months since my last appointment with the old one. I have two small holes that need filling, one tooth — the one with the abscess — has to come out right away, and the other tooth could be saved by a miracle of engineering and architecture… if I go see a specialist in Ottawa. Right now their office is seeing how many times a year Disability will pay for an appointment. They want me to come in three times a year for maintenance. If I can quit smoking I guess I might be able to start seeing a dentist on a regular basis. Now, if there was just some kind of guarantee that Disability will continue to pay for all of this… or, maybe, a Provincial Code Of Ethics that might bind and force a dentist to deal with people on Disability… mmm… if only.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar, Canada, Classic, crazy people with no pants, Dentist, Depression, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Memories, Ottawa, Punk, Salted Truths | 19 Comments