Once School started in September, Hyun decided it would be best if he moved to campus because he was starting the Engineering program at UBC. It was in and around his departure that things started to spiral out of control. A new young man (Gab) moved into the apartment, and to be frank, he was hard on the head. After our initial meet and greet, I attempted to avoid him at all costs, because once a conversation was started, he'd NEVER STOP TALKING. It was always a one-way conversation, so really not a conversation at all. Gab would go on and on about a bunch of obscure topics I could care less about, and if you tried to chime in, he'd completely ignore your comment and continue to talk. The worst part about the situation was that he seemed to like me the most out of all our roommates; probably because I'd stand there and listen to him talk without interrupting his incessant garble by saying "yeah, you can stop talking now". As a result of this man's lack of understanding regarding a "two-way" conversation, I started spending more time in my room.
I still wasn't getting much work at "Can Do Coatings" and consequently, more time in my room, meant more time in my own head. To cope with fear, anxiety and depression I would make my way over to the closest Safeway, buy a bunch of candy and cookies and return to my room to annihilate it. Days would go by and the fear would build on top of itself until I felt estranged from human interaction and from the outside world. When fear consumed me, I accessed my coping mechanisms. I opened up my "dealing with stress toolkit" and noticed that a piece of crumpled paper that read "go drink alcohol" along with a cube of toilet paper that read "eat cookie, feel better, P.S. not really" were the only things inside. I tried the "cookie" method, now back to the other option.
There was a liquor store right by the Safeway that I'd travel to in order to pick up a six-pack of Granville Island beer. On my way back I'd sit my butt on a park bench across from my apartment and people-watch.
There was a First Nations man who used to travel through the park. He was usually drunk and muttering to himself. "My God that man is bad off" I'd think to myself, and totally dismiss my own problems...I was cracking beers in public, talking to myself as well, and listening to alternative tunes on YOUTUBE, but was certainly nowhere near as sick as "that" man.... right.
When the six-pack was gone, I'd wander back over to the liquor store, purchase another six beer and walk back to my room. My inner dialogue started creating stories of how the impending night would go down. I would meet the girl of my dreams, be the center of attention at a huge party and somehow become wildly wealthy.
When I arrived back in my rectangular prison, I turned on YOUTUBE and began blaring it from my phone. I'd get pumped up for the night; dancing around the room like a crazed chicken on the Psych Ward for chickens. When all of the beer was drunk, it was showtime! Off I'd go on the bus to downtown Vancouver.
A lot of the time it was Gastown that was my go-to. There was a bar that was both dingy and seedy which offered $3.00 draft within the area. The beer was flat and disgusting, but I didn't care. It was a pub for alcoholics, for loners, and the lost; a place where I fit in, where I felt comfortable. It was a few blocks down "East Hastings Street"; an area of the City that is notorious for being overrun by addiction, tragedy and the homeless. Drugs and death ran rampant, a godless, empty corner of Vancouver. It was a world so separate from my own, yet so much closer than I could have imagined.
There was a cute girl sitting at the bar. We exchanged "the look" and I shuffled over to talk to her. She was celebrating her birthday. Within five minutes we were making out; my kind of interaction. We eventually found our way to the dance floor, where the cells of my brain gave way, and a lapse in memory ensued.
When my memory returned, I was standing over the laundry basket in my room taking a piss, wondering how I made it home. "What the fuck?" I said out loud, "meh, it was dirty anyway".
I walked out to the refrigerator and grabbed a glass of Orange Juice and then fell asleep with half my body hanging off the bed and a glass of juice spilt on the floor.
I awoke the next day with hundreds of ants crawling on the carpet. The sight of them disgusted me, as if it was my body they were crawling on and not the juice covered floor. My hand quickly swept across the floor killing as many as possible. When I was done committing "ant genocide" I got up off my knees and smelt the laundry basket.... "gross" I said, shaking my head while sauntering to the kitchen to eat Shimpe's Mini Wheats.
While pouring myself a bowl of the sugar covered cereal, Shimpe walked into the kitchen and caught me red handed. "Ah, I'll go get you a brand-new box this afternoon, sorry man, I was just so hungry!" I said, in a panic. We laughed it off awkwardly, Shimpe was a nice guy, as for me; I was thinking of the only person that mattered to me in that moment... myself.
I went to purchase him a new box of cereal, and over the course of the next several days, ended up eating that box as well. I am now on Shimpe's assassination list.
The following day, Hyun made his way over to his old apartment and joined me for a run to help boost my mood. On our way along King Edward Avenue we'd often talk about this huge elegant looking white house we'd jog by on our way to UBC; it looked like a miniature castle, complete with a circular coned tower.
We thought it would be so cool to explore the place, to find all of the secret nooks and crannies that we imagined lied therein. I pondered what it must have been like to be rich, to own such a massive home. Time and again I'd lay eyes on the place, daydream of a life far from my own, until it was out of sight, passing in an instant, with nothing but breath and the pitter patter of feet to distract me.
Now, in an "out in left field" sort of manor I want to introduce you (that's right YOU) to a really tall guy (6,8) (Mitch) who used to play on my varsity basketball team in High School (I know random). He transferred to Leo Hayes from the High School on the South side of Fredericton. Prior to his transfer I only knew him through competition on both the JV basketball and volleyball court. There was something about him that just gnawed at me; he seemed to be so negative and egotistical; it always gave me GREAT pleasure to beat him. To his credit, I never beat his team on the basketball court, but did in the provincial finals in Volleyball (remember that? If you don't, I'm concerned). Oddly enough we became good friends in High School and more notably began acquiring a more symbiotic relationship when I decided to move out West.
He messaged me one day and said "I'm coming to Vancouver to stay in my Aunt and Uncles Condo, want to hangout?" I was totally down to chill. I walked over to the condo he was staying in and we began polishing off a couple of brews that he had conveniently put away in the refrigerator. We discussed past events and what we hoped for ourselves in the future; took a couple photos on the porch and then walked down by Stanley Park to watch the Canada Day Fireworks. Oh yeah, it was Canada day when we met up.... The fireworks were a spectacle beyond human comprehension; sort of. Afterwards, we made our way down to Gastown and entered a nice British style pub. We agreed to tell all potential prospects that we were entrepreneurs for an obscure undefined lucrative real-estate business. There were a few girls that we talked to, but nothing too promising, besides I was too busy sucking the open end of a beer bottle to make any big "scores".
—Introspection—
Whenever I got rip roaring drunk, close to a black-out or in a black-out, my restlessness would always reach a state of complete discontentedness. No place, person, or thing was good enough to satisfy me. From one bar to the next, one person to the next, and one drink to the next, deriving zero satisfaction from anything that came my way. It was NEVER enough. The amount of nights I spent roaming from bar to bar were countless. Searching for a disposition of utter Nirvana that would never come. Part of me just wanted to escape myself, the life I had created; the sick mind that lied and manipulated. That's why I blacked out so often, it was like a break from the insanity that was my life. And then I'd walk, looking for something outside to fix me, to validate me, to save ME.
---
So, apparently off I went leaving my tall friend behind to search for something "better". I say "apparently" for obvious reasons....and so I'm romping around Vancouver blitzed out of my noggin with a single brain cell singing "row row row your boat" until I submerged from auto-pilot and found myself on the front lawn of the large white castle-like house on King Edward Avenue, being handcuffed by the police; I cringed as the locking mechanisms pinched my wrists, or maybe I was cringing because I had no idea what was happening, "you be the judge!"(said in a commanding, baritone voice).
They loaded me in the back of their cruiser and drove me back down King Edward to my apartment which was maybe half a kilometer away. The pinch from the handcuffs was enough to leave me jostling around for a comfortable position before being told to step out of the vehicle. The cops walked me down to my apartment where my landlords were seated waiting for my arrival.
Here was a twenty-five-year-old man (me) being ushered into his place by law enforcement agents who probably saved his life, ensuring that he was in good hands and would be safe for the night. I certainly was not grateful at the time, more embarrassed by my actions. When the officers left, one of the landlords simply said "you not drink so much!" And then the small Chinese woman and her husband walked back upstairs to try and resume their rudely disturbed "sleep time".
The next morning, I began piecing together some fragmented memories from the night before. It was apparent that while royally polluted I thought it would be a good idea to explore the "big white mansion" Hyun and I had run by so many times before. While pondering these cracked memories I glanced to my left and saw a can of Stag Chili on my desk-top. Now, I'm not quite sure whether it was the police who told me I took the chili from the owner's cupboard or whether I genuinely remember taking it. The memory is there, but it might have been fabricated after being told what I had done when confronted by the sobering police presence that night. I can also see myself at the foot of the man's staircase that led to the top floor (Figured it must be a man based on his voice) he said "what are you doing?", I responded by saying "I'm tired" and then assumed the fetal position on the red, fuzzy couch that sat beside his front door. This dialogue could also be a fabrication, but again, not conclusively. What we can bank on is that I was romping around the mansion looking for something valuable, guess Stag Chili seemed like the best option.
Sometimes I'll find myself thinking of the owner of that large beautiful white home on King Edward and what a scare I must have given him that night. Their front door is definitely not left unlocked anymore I'd imagine; hopefully no residual effects took over following the incident.
I'm sober now older gentlemen from the "white house" and in this sober life I seem to have a hard time squishing a mosquito that is obese from sucking on my own bicep blood, please do not fear another intrusion from me oh Great Castle Dweller".
But yeah, once again, I got lucky. My face could have been beaten in, the police could have arrested me or at the very least they could have taken me down to the drunk tank. The police get a bad rap a lot of the time. You see it in social media, I hear it all the time working in a group home, but in my case, they saved my life, and not just once, multiple times.
Over time it was no longer realistic for me to be placed on the job with my cousin Larry for each and every shift at "Can-Do Coatings". There was a parkade that needed to be ground down and recoated in the downtown Vancouver area. I began working under a guy around my age named Tubby. We didn't really click needless to say, he was an alright guy though, however, I found the assignment more taxing mental-health wise than anything because there was no one on the crew that was "buddy buddy" with me.
There was another gent named Jasper who would come on site on occasion to make sure everything was running smoothly. Jasper gave me a set of instructions that weren't quite clear and instead of asking for clarification I just went ahead and starting filling a hole in the concrete with cocking. Jasper walked over like the "Big Angry Giant" and said "what the fuck are you doing? I should beat your head in with this hammer!". An awkward smile formed on my face as Jasper walked off in a fit of irritability. He was an interesting man; I had heard he spent some time in jail and definitely had a much tougher life than the one given to me. Oddly enough, I kind of liked the guy.
Jasper wasn't around often. So, the Tubster (Tubby) was ruling the roost most of the time. However; on this particular day the CEO of "Can Do Coatings" was on-site meeting with the owner of the parkade. The CEO asked us to halt all construction until their meeting had concluded, due to the dust we were kicking up and how that may not be so healthy for the Parkade owner to inhale. So, I just started wandering around, twiddling my thumbs and glancing this way and that all in the midst of looking at social media on my phone.
About ten minutes after being told to wait a little while before returning to work, Tubby walked over to me and said "start sweeping". I looked at him dubiously and said "but the boss told us to hold-up". He continued to tell me to "get to work" and I continued to refuse with self-riteousness and spite until the uncomfortable exchange reached a head. "The Tubster" let out a prestigious yell of sheer authority "get to work!". Anger welled up inside my chest as my mind reached a crossroad; it was either "Fuck you Tubby!" or put my head down and suck it up. I put my head down and started sweeping. The day dragged on from there; when it was time to leave, I said my awkward goodbyes and went home to "drink at old Tubby".
If I was mad at someone the residual emotional response was too overwhelming for me. Anger is just one of those emotions that I really struggle to deal with, so I'd get back at Old Tubby by poisoning myself with alcohol..... what a practical response...
For the next four nights I drank; beer after beer I guzzled, whatever was within arm's reach was dumped down my throat with an agitated apathy and because the bars were my ultimate destination point the beer along with the money in my bank account depleted rapidly. When the gluttony finally halted, I awoke in my bed covered in urine and apple juice. "I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself, I want to die, I can't live this life, it's too hard for me, the world is cruel, it's a dark, dark place and I wasn't created for this harsh nightmare".
The mental torment went on like that for two weeks. I'd make frequent trips to Safeway; gather a collection of sugar infused foods and retire back to the black hole that was my room. On the desk in the corner sat a DVD Player and a 19" flat screen TV. The movie "The Great Gatsby" with Leonardo Dicaprio played on repeat. I could lose myself in the shimmering, magic of such a film. It gave me temporary relief from the madness of total self-rejection.
"It must be the depression, the anxiety that are the sole culprits of this patterned perpetual reintegration into total anarchy" I thought to myself conveniently. The power of self-manipulation I could conjure was enigmatic and totally fucking baffling to me now. "Come on self-will, save me from this immature and reckless way of living", this is just a phase" I surmised as I wolfed down a cookie of titanic proportions before succumbing to a food induced coma of melancholic alleviation.
There were a couple of these incidences in Vancouver where my mood would dip so low that the only conceivable option seemed like isolation and gluttony. To get myself out of these abysmal predicaments was no easy task.
To separate myself from the self-pity and despair, I'd walk out the glass sliding doors of my apartment and out into the faded recesses of a Vancouver evening. Then I'd just begin by moving my feet and muttering to myself as I propelled my body into a steady jog. The magic number was fourteen kilometers; that's how far I needed to go in order to find forgiveness and some clarity. In those moments exercise became a punishment and not a pleasure; however, without this punishment, I may have never gotten out of bed, and fortunately in the midst of these aerobic bouts, the running became a muse for further change and positive action. They flipped my perspective and provided clarity to a war ridden intellect, rot with addiction and the unknown.