January 23, 2008 - Wednesday
Today, I finished my psychiatric appointment with his "Be well, Chad" and walked down the one creaky flight of stairs in the Upper East Side townhouse office, out into the cold, chilly breeze of 5th Avenue, which huffs and puffs freezing, occasionally, through my New York City these days. Stuffing my hands in my coat's pockets, because of forgetting my gloves at work, I walked towards the cross-town bus stop thinking about his advice for the weekends: Just get up and take a shower. All the rest is to be determined. It is good advice, and I will take it, as my Saturdays and Sundays have been spent in bed, sleeping, trying to sleep, wrestling with will, ignoring hope, settling into a kind of eternal hibernation, which is not for me to live.
He had told me not to give up my friends of cigarettes and wine in a previous session, so I held onto that advice as well, while walking and trying to determine where best to find those vices tonight, those which seem to comfort me best during this most hard and difficult time. (Perhaps you do not know, and I do not feel the need to elaborate now, but, within the past year and a half, three people close to me have passed, in tragic ways, and it has been ever so difficult to keep on keeping on.)
I crowded onto the overstuffed bus, normally quite full for its trip across Central Park, and I only thought of two things: What would I drink? And if I did drink, what would I eat to compensate? This is sad, and I know, but it is true. I decided to just go home; go to the C train, take it to 125th Street and then transfer to the A to my home in Washington Heights. I could decide the rest later. Like getting up and taking a shower on Saturday and Sunday.
During flight, I attempted to write my journal, finding that I really had nothing to say. What could I say? Should I comment on the traffic in the train, what they were wearing, who I thought they were, where I thought they were going? Could I even attempt to be somewhat creative; try some sort of poetic prose that will ultimately find me nowhere? I ended my entry with "there is nothing to say" and continued on my journey home.
Once out of the subway, through the tunnel and out into the moonlight, I checked my messages on my cell phone, but there were none. I think I sighed, "I have done such a good job of causing my phone not to ring; I am truly an expert." Alone, people walked past me briskly on the dimly lit sidewalk hoping to get home and out of the chill surrounding all of us. I had no need of the music on my MP3 player, for my mind was racing so loudly, music certainly couldn't be heard.
My routine found me at Fort Deli. I bought lots of bottled water, a pack of Newports, and a SmartWater (which I do adore). Then it was a quick hop and skip next door to Sanchez Liquor for a bottle of Merlot. My "friends".
I walked into Sanchez to see those two familiar faces. The owner and his friend were there beside the new wood counter with smiles and hellos. I'll admit it, I'm a regular, and they know me well and like me. As I put the bottle of Merlot on the counter, the friend seemed to remember something and spoke to the owner in Spanish.
The only words I understood were "Heath Ledger" and "Brokenback Mountain". Brokenback?
I paid for my wine, and then asked if they were talking about who I thought they were. "Oh yes! Isn't it horrible? We can't believe it. Drugs and alcohol." No, no, they were just sleeping pills, I said. "And anti-depressants and alcohol," he replied. The alcohol, I had not heard, yet it rang loudly, like the school-bell for the changing of classes; but still, it was left to be confirmed. Yet, true or not, it seemed that my entrance into the store had reminded him of death, and that left me feeling afraid and aware.
Perhaps it is time for new friends; ones that love and support, rather than just ease the pain. What do you think?
