Awaitings

standing at the corner of 33rd and 10th awaiting carpenters to meet me for Hudson Grille partition layout...I waited an hour

Waiting seems to be my middle name at this point. 

I don't know. I'm an After School Special waiting to explode onto the screen. Brooding eyes and lips, crying like a goddamned baby. I've got little to no sympathy from anyone because frankly, I'm a sick individual and what? Sick people don't deserve sympathy?

In any event, no cause for concern because I am a sturdy survivor.

Last night, Jon went to see his favorite musical artist, Black Moth Super Rainbow, in Williamsburg, by himself. Just noting this, no more to comment to it.

I have been working on one construction project for now going on over a year and a half. It is a curtainwall and storefront enclosure, a "building envelope" (I like that) and we've just had many obstacles obstructing us (which is what obstacles do.)

I desperately require change. This is what I know of myself and have known for years but have never fairly processed it. 

Why do I move so often? Why do I change obsessions? See what I mean?

I'm seeing a very decent therapist, Shante. She is kind and understanding and all things good therapists should be. She offers ideas that I wouldn't think of, like, why don't you think of Jon's ex-wife as "Fitz's Mom" in lieu of "Jon's Ex"? (Removing the negativity and replacing with positivity.) And additionally, my benefits through my company nearly pay the entirety of my therapy. Jon is always stunned at my benefits package. My sessions cost me a whopping 8 dollars. Whopping will be a stricken word moving forward. Striking words from the family lexicon is something the boys and I do.

I just cry so hard these days. Again, like in the earlier years of mine, I cry and cry.

I don't want a pill or anything. I just want to stop crying. I used to be able to blame it on menses, but now, I mean...I don't bleed the entire month. What gives?

The most significant change I've found in myself has to do with anxiety and alignment. I can barely focus on the world based on this issue.

It's like I cannot stomach what is facing me when I see everything out of plumb.

My whole mental state turns to shit, and I can barely breathe. Like, in genuine honesty, my chest tightens.

I spend way too many minutes straightening things. And I know that this is a thing, an issue, a curse, whatever it needs to be called.

But how do I get this thing lifted?

I literally cannot enter a room without straightening at least one thing.

HELP! :)

Blues

found object on rooftop of 487 keap street (my brooklyn apartment) (turns out my dear friend maria knows the girl who makes these! life is magical.)

I am so fucking ::magical:: - truth. Most days it just doesn't feel that way. Like my magic is on hiatus. Or like it's an ADD and addled child riddled with stream of consciousness thoughts, dimming the effect of the so-called "magic."

Yet here I sit, semi-content on a Saturday, having faced some fears over the past week that were jarring.

Last Thursday, my dear, becoming "best" friend Jon, sent me a text, a long one but one with not enough detail for me to have any bearing as to what was happening. In essence, his text informed me that he was at the ER and being admitted to medical detox for trying to quit Jameson and Xanax cold turkey. He gave no additional information as to what had happened to him, physically? Emotionally? A paralyzing pairing of the two? So I was freaked the fuck out.

I possess a sensitivity which can be, in and of itself, paralyzing. So my mind began to race (he did briefly mention they would be taking his cell phone away and that he would have limited ability to contact me) and as if things couldn't be worse, he was out on Long Island. With his son. Far from reach. With his son. (What had his son seen? I was beside myself with fear over that, in addition to my fear for Jon's well being and physical discord.)

Thursday night I called the only hospital within clearance of where he was staying with his Aunt and Uncle that I could possibly find: the hospital would give me no information on Jon's admittance, or anything, for that matter. I was nearly in a screaming match with the receptionist who calmly explained that patient confidentiality was of utmost importance and that she needed to honor that. "But Jon would want to talk to me!" I insisted with heat and ferocity in my voice.

I fell asleep that night crying over my friend Jon. How lonely he must have been. How scared.

Work the next day was rather slow for a Friday. I spent a decent amount of time researching alcohol withdrawal symptoms and then moved my way into Xanax withdrawal symptoms: holy fuck. I began to understand. How absolutely terrifying.

I left work early in a fog and headed to one of our commonality Midtown venues; the bartenders inquired about his whereabouts to which I replied, "Oh, he's out on Long Island this week, he'll be back," with a sinking heart because no, we won't go back to those places. We can't be regulars anywhere, anymore.

My phone rang, indicating an "UNKNOWN" caller which at first I wondered if it could be Jon but at the same time, my inclination to answer anyone "UNKNOWN" is an immediate NO. And so I did not. And minutes later, the voicemail ding indicated that UNKNOWN had left a voicemail. And yes, it was Jon.

He sounded really good. His voice was clear, uplifted, but for Jon, he's readily able to implement that stability, even when he's feeling less than stable. I've seen Jon stumble emotionally maybe twice in the year or so that I've known him. He maintains his footing.

I returned to Brooklyn and he called again, and this time I answered, gathering now that UNKNOWN was him.

We managed to speak for a grand total of maybe eight minutes (he was calling from the hospital's office phone.)

06.03.2018 footnote: reading old drafts and determining whether post-worthy. This one is.