and my blind eye to the sun...
I hate being sick-it gives me too much time to think. I can’t really do anything else. I’ve read all the books I own and I don’t have the energy to get myself to the library. I’ve seen all the movies I own and don’t really feel like watching them again. There isn’t anything on TV that holds my interest, so I take some NyQuil , put in a West Wing DVD and doze.
I’m a horrible patient, even for myself, and this round of sickness – a head cold that I’ve had three times in as many months, is straining my relationship with me. My mind skips in fits and starts across my past and my dreams become disturbing, filled with images that make no sense and leave me questioning myself when I wake.
Whoever came up with that “sticks and stones” nonsense should be shot, because it just isn’t true. Years ago he told me that I was insane and should be committed and I have never been able to shake the sound of his voice saying those words from my head. They tainted all the wonderful memories of his voice before them. Even though I know it isn’t true. Even though I know that everything he said then was a palliative to make it easier for him to excuse kicking me onto the street, literally, those words crop up again when I am at my most vulnerable. They make me want to tell all of his secrets to the people he loves. They make me want to hurt him. They make me realize why victims of crime should never sit on a jury.
Then I think about Nicole andVal and Susan and how alike they are. Do I attract a certain type of friend? Nicole in high school, Susan in college, Val now. I’d be fine with it except for the fact that I seem to have to lose one to move on to the next. I miss you, Susan, just not the person I was when I knew you. I doubt that you miss me.
I remember driving down a winding coastal two lane highway late at night in SC and thinking about turning the wheel into the path of the truck coming towards me. I remember thinking that it was a beautiful night to die. Instead I drove home. Still, I doubt I’ll ever drive to Edisto Island again.
Listening to Working on a Dream now sends me back to the nights I stayed up for hours playing The Rising over and over again. So much happened in my life in 2001 that by the time I got that album in 2002 it seemed almost like a lifeline; Bruce’s voice and the bands’ music pulling me up and out of the darkness more than the shrink or the meds. It was not abstract, that music was something firm that I could hold on to when everything around me turned to quicksand.
The days are racing towards my 30th birthday and my last cigarette. It feels like someone dying slowly – every day is a goodbye.
My life is presenting me with so many opportunities to live up to the things I preach. I’m not sure I have the energy to do it all sometimes. Other times I wish I could skip ahead, through the next few months which I am sure will be hard and full of tests and trials. Then again I think that I have everything I need to move forward and that each moment, especially the hardest of them, should be savoured.
Sometimes I look at how far I’ve come and I cry for where I was then, and how far I have to go. Sometimes I look back in anger. Sometimes I look forward with fear. Sometimes I don’t look, I just walk on.