Watching: my bloodpressure skyrocket
I honestly don't know where to start, so I guess that I'll pick up where I last left off, in a blind rage due to the destruction of my retaining wall that started my downward spiral into severe chronic depression.
You may now get out your popcorn.
So as the destruction of the wall continued until every last bit of evidence of its existence was gone (outside of my numerous injuries and aches, both physical and financial), I found that I had to keep myself away from home as much as possible to prevent myself from losing the last traces of sanity I had and going on a murderous rampage which would've no doubt not just been on the local news but also probably national. As the wooden monstrosities which would later be called places of dwelling, I sought help from medical professionals who found that I had a very high blood pressure due to the stress. Astronomically high. Something like 190 over 120 or something akin to that, meaning that I'd either have a heart attack or stroke (I'll be getting to more strokes later on) at any moment. Even in the process of writing about The Wall I can feel my blood pressure rise, so I'll continue on with something else.
The medical professional I was seeing at the time suggested that I try taking yoga at the college where I teach to help deal with my stress. Even signing up caused stress, because while I'm an adjunct there, I wasn't eligible to sign up without fees. Fees which would otherwise be waived if I was teaching enough hours, but funny on how I was just under the amount needed. So ironically enough, the thing that was supposed to be helping me relieve stress was instead causing more. In typical fashion I 'sucked it up', paid the fees and enrolled, learning how to twist and bend and pose my body into shapes and positions that it's not normally contorted into to relieve stress. In a limited way, it worked, distracting me sufficiently from my stress in my efforts to correctly breathe and pose, as well as the resulting aches. It's was all rather rock/paper/scissor-like. I wouldn't mind taking it again to get some more practice in.
Besides the astronomically high blood pressure, my stress has manifested itself in other ways, namely in the manifestation of skin lesions like psoriasis on my elbows and areas of my hands. And if that wasn't enough, even the medications used in the treatment of my hypertension (high blood pressure) can aid the flaring up of psoriasis, so I'm using a topical steroidal cream to deal with that as well.
I'm a mess. I'm literally 'flaking out'.
When a long-time friend of mine (I knew them since I was 14) was hospitalized and needed to return to a bed instead of the couch fold-out mattress, I of course wanted to help. So I cleared out a room that was filled up with junk, stuffing its contents into a storage unit so that they could actually get some rest. Of course there was all sorts of drama and related stresses involved, but it needed to be done, so I had then spent the tail end of '15 and all of '16 paying $164 a month paying to store somebody else's junk. I told both my father and my friend that I'll pay for it up through the end of '16, but after that, no more. Either they clean it out (I gave them the keys for it and access code for entry onto the storage lot) or it all gets tossed. I'm not doing anything more. Suffice it to say that it's still in there, and I paid for it again, but I'm taking it out of the payments that I've been making to my father due to the current circumstances, but I'll get to that shortly.
The friend then moved out in early August of '16, saying that they have a job lined up for them in southern California, but they needed money to get set up. So ok, I helped them out with a gift (I honestly didn't expect to be paid back at all) of $1,000 to do so and wished them well. Turns out that they job they thought they had wasn't there so had to make do with other work. Egad, it's as if they set themselves up to fail. They should've just stayed at that job instead of flailing around for other types of work.
Moving on. Go get a refill of popcorn.
It was also during 2016 that there was a bunch of sewer/water line work being done to help mitigate the excess rainwater situation so that raw sewage wouldn't be dumped directly into the river. That meant that again the roads would be blocked off at one time or another. Keep in mind that the neighborhood had recently had to endure Grimm, the construction of the wooden monstrosities, and now there was this. The street in front of our house used to be concrete, albeit with tar 'spackling' the cracks, but it was sturdy and held up for many decades. And even while the contract work said that they'd replace it with concrete after the work was done, they asphalted it. So here comes the potholes, everybody!
So then there's the matter of my father's prolific model hoarding. He started to move some of his models into the friend's old room (which used to be my room decades ago), and I was having none of it, so I moved his models back onto the rest of his hoard which he promptly blew a fuse. He and I had a Christmas eve heated discussion on what his hoarding was doing to me, and I had told him, again, point blank, that it was killing me due to the stress. 'Death by a thousand cuts' were my exact words, but it simply didn't register to him. It was then and there that I realized that he cared more about his models than about me. I've seen this before in the numerous hoarding shows that I've watched throughout the years to keep me motivated to keep on cleaning, never thinking that it would be done to me, but there it was. Suffice to say that I was taken aback by this. To me, actions always speak louder than words, and by my father's actions, I absolutely knew, then and there, that he had a mental disorder of hoarding. He can deny it all he wants, but when his oh-so-precious model kit collection takes precedence over one of his few remaining, immediate loved ones, he indeed has a problem. But wait, it gets better!
Two weeks later, almost to the very day, my brother found my father sick, unwell, and dizzy, having vomited upon himself in his chair. We obviously knew this wasn't good so immediately called 911. The paramedics soon arrived to help my father but were unable to move him due to the collection of models and various junk around him. It took three additional firemen, who arrived shortly after the paramedics, to move the crap out of the way so that they could safely get him to the gurney, to the ambulance, and then to the hospital's emergency room. My brother and I were both hoping that it might've been due to a severe inner/middle ear injury/infection/ailment, but after a CAT scan was performed on my father, it turned out to be a stroke, specifically in his cerebellum, which affects his motor skills, balance, all of that.
So at the time of this writing, my father is currently in a rehabilitation clinic, regaining some of his finer motor control which was impaired, but not paralyzed, his right side as well as causing him to speak a little slurred and/or slowly. His mental faculties aren't impaired, just his body. I feel like a horrible person for wishing that it affected him mentally so that I could more easily remove or at least significantly diminish his hoarding tendencies. My brother has been of minimal assistance, not having seen my father once while in the hospital nor lately at the rehab center. There's only two things that I am aware of that my brother has done so far and that is a little cleaning of a wire-mesh shelving and trying to get my father's old laptop working again. That is it. No laundry, no visiting, no running errands, no paying bills of my father, that's it. He's not cleaned the litter-box, even though I showed him how (HA!), he's not cleaned the floor, not just the local area of a recent feline emission, nothing else.
It's from this that I've realized that I'm in my own personal hell. Anything and everything that I've tried to do in the past few years have either been thwarted, destroyed, or reversed. I had planned on extracting myself from this hellish place and move into an apartment by myself, but since my father's stroke, and my own sense of responsibility to my family, those plans are now gone.
Quite some time ago, back before my cancer days, I was having the typical existential crisis of a late teen and thought of suicide. Then cancer appeared and I had sworn off of doing such a thing ever since. That doesn't mean I've not thought about it, goodness no, it just means that I won't do it. So now I'm stuck in a situation of perpetual misery and suffering, unable to change it, and even the release of death is no longer an option for me.
If this isn't what exactly defines hell, I don't know what is.