Being there.
It was fall, I thought to myself. The afternoon was sunny, but the breeze - certain-smelling, comforting in its' coolness - floated across my cheeks and through my hair as I walked through the parking lot on the way to my car, one hand resting on my leather crossbody bag, the one that makes me feel like a traveler or the honorary girl warrior in the Lord of The Rings gang. Getting into the car, I pulled my seatbelt on and sat and stared out the window for a moment before pulling out of the space. Maybe I should go back to therapy, I thought to myself as I checked the air behind me. Maybe I should try to cry on the way home. Maybe I shouldn't even really think about it.
I read this thing the other day that warned me that I was keeping my emotions too tight. Locked in. Forced down. I kind of rolled my eyes and stood up and got back to what I was doing. Things have been exhausting, lately. I get up at 5 in the morning to train on dispatch until 2, then go to Mooselips to manage and hostess and bartend and promote and charm until after night falls. I don't get enough sleep, and there are days when I come home and realize I've forgotten to eat. The things I was looking forward to - visits from friends, project completions, festivals and trips...have all fallen by the wayside due to conflicting schedules. I haven't been able to write much of anything since the end of August. I haven't emailed Erica in over a month. And my friend Ang has breast cancer, I thought to myself as I focused my weary eyes on the road, and I don't know how to be there for her.
I used to be really good at this. That. Swooping in, taking care of everything, holding vigil by the bedside. Being there, for that. But after it ended up that none of that even really mattered, it felt like I just couldn't do it anymore. And now I don't even know how to. I don't know what's too much, or not enough, or what's the right thing to say, or what the thing is that everyone is waiting for me to do, the thing that if I don't or do do, it will just make it worse. I can't see you in pain, because then I'll just start crying and make this about me and so maybe it's best if I just stand here in the doorway and watch and pretend like it's not happening, or make a joke and throw up some jazzhands. Which makes me an awful friend. Which is how I've been feeling in all sorts of ways with all of my friends lately, but especially with this one. When the chips were down, where the fuck was I.
And it's the big fear. All the friends I've made, all the people I love...what if I just end up losing them now? By either moving up here or them going away or things happening. Or making mistakes.
My roommate came in the door to find me lying on the floor, eyes closed. Exhausted, I had finally arrived home and thrown on my red '70's "I should wear these to a roller disco" shorts and my "Vote For Pedro" t-shirt, intending to immediately climb up to bed. A single plaintive meow from Deloris Pookerton made me instead decide to lay on the floor in a weak attempt to spend some time with her. Adam put his stuff down on the counter, stepped over my half-slumbering body, and sat down in the chair, both of us quiet for what felt like a long time. Adam's not verbally great with the emotional stuff. He's the kind of guy you try to tell all of your daily problems and issues to, only to wind up with a response somewhere along the lines of a look, a nod, and a single utterance of "Shitty." But he tends to offer comfort in other ways, like not making you talk about it, or just getting it without making you talk at all. So I folded myself off of the floor, padded over to a chair on the other side of the table, and after another long span of companionable silence, suggested we go out for a drink.
We live two blocks from Main Street. Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my down vest, I walked with Adam to the bar and thought about how this was kind of nice...being able to just walk two blocks in the fall night to the bar. Which is something I used to do all the time, I reminded myself. But in Hayward, that kind of convenient foot travel is hard to come by.
"I think I'm depressed, being back here," I told him.
"I know," he replied.
I read this thing the other day that warned me that I was keeping my emotions too tight. Locked in. Forced down. I kind of rolled my eyes and stood up and got back to what I was doing. Things have been exhausting, lately. I get up at 5 in the morning to train on dispatch until 2, then go to Mooselips to manage and hostess and bartend and promote and charm until after night falls. I don't get enough sleep, and there are days when I come home and realize I've forgotten to eat. The things I was looking forward to - visits from friends, project completions, festivals and trips...have all fallen by the wayside due to conflicting schedules. I haven't been able to write much of anything since the end of August. I haven't emailed Erica in over a month. And my friend Ang has breast cancer, I thought to myself as I focused my weary eyes on the road, and I don't know how to be there for her.
I used to be really good at this. That. Swooping in, taking care of everything, holding vigil by the bedside. Being there, for that. But after it ended up that none of that even really mattered, it felt like I just couldn't do it anymore. And now I don't even know how to. I don't know what's too much, or not enough, or what's the right thing to say, or what the thing is that everyone is waiting for me to do, the thing that if I don't or do do, it will just make it worse. I can't see you in pain, because then I'll just start crying and make this about me and so maybe it's best if I just stand here in the doorway and watch and pretend like it's not happening, or make a joke and throw up some jazzhands. Which makes me an awful friend. Which is how I've been feeling in all sorts of ways with all of my friends lately, but especially with this one. When the chips were down, where the fuck was I.
And it's the big fear. All the friends I've made, all the people I love...what if I just end up losing them now? By either moving up here or them going away or things happening. Or making mistakes.
My roommate came in the door to find me lying on the floor, eyes closed. Exhausted, I had finally arrived home and thrown on my red '70's "I should wear these to a roller disco" shorts and my "Vote For Pedro" t-shirt, intending to immediately climb up to bed. A single plaintive meow from Deloris Pookerton made me instead decide to lay on the floor in a weak attempt to spend some time with her. Adam put his stuff down on the counter, stepped over my half-slumbering body, and sat down in the chair, both of us quiet for what felt like a long time. Adam's not verbally great with the emotional stuff. He's the kind of guy you try to tell all of your daily problems and issues to, only to wind up with a response somewhere along the lines of a look, a nod, and a single utterance of "Shitty." But he tends to offer comfort in other ways, like not making you talk about it, or just getting it without making you talk at all. So I folded myself off of the floor, padded over to a chair on the other side of the table, and after another long span of companionable silence, suggested we go out for a drink.
We live two blocks from Main Street. Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my down vest, I walked with Adam to the bar and thought about how this was kind of nice...being able to just walk two blocks in the fall night to the bar. Which is something I used to do all the time, I reminded myself. But in Hayward, that kind of convenient foot travel is hard to come by.
"I think I'm depressed, being back here," I told him.
"I know," he replied.
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