Stripped of my possessions I reenter this world anew- raw and uncomfortable. All my shit is temporarily out of commission and the reality of this has just hit me. Autonomy out the window. Goodbye place to hang my hat. I know that material crap does not a whole person make, but as a chronic anxiety sufferer there’s a certain amount of stuff that simply must. be. accessible. My chosen reality has been carefully erected with small totems indicating “safety” i.e, all my DVDs are on a shelf and when I flip a turd, there they be offering precious calm. Having bedbugs is kind of like having all your possessions lit on fire. When grabbing easily washable clothes yesterday I took stock of everything that’s been exposed/is susceptible to bed bugs- the fabric cases holding my guitar pedals and cords, my guitar amp, my shoes, bed, chest of drawers, bags, vinyl, furniture, books-fuck everything. Feels uncomfortable. That’s the best word for it. Uncomfortable.
So to then go buy new clothes and walk around Toronto with nothing to do, nowhere to go holding nothing but a small plastic bag with a cell phone charger and a brand new pair of underwear is pretty bleak. A huge thank you to my parents for their invaluable wisdom, (mom, “spray the apartment, and RUN”) and their help.
And at night I fall asleep sitting up because I just crapped out a panic attack (literally and figuratively) and where's my fucking Ativan keeps racing through my mind and god I have to fucking work in the morning but not like this I won't. You know those nights when there's a phantom vice grip on your chest and you don't know why or how to relax enough for it to slip away and you've just moved out of bed bug farm to find yourself smack dab in the middle of cockroach alley and they are fucking big and how was this such a problem in Toronto and how did I live for 4 years in slum apartments without ever realizing?
Sleep.
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