And So It Goes

After only three nights of indulgence, I find my addiction to Benadryl and self-medicated sleep rearing its gruesome head. My parents' home boasted ample rewards for my habit, but, unfortunately, I exhausted my personal stores of those lovely pink and white pills during a particularly difficult week in late November. I am left jittery and wired with no immediate hopes of slumber and a wake up call expected in a few hours. Rather than squirm under the sheets for the next hour while sleepless frustration builds to a boiling point, I might as well dump the load I've been trudging around for the past week.
Christmas was an odd mix of disappointment and relief. It was nice to be home, even nicer to leave my burdens on the front stoop for the week. I was hardly carefree but could be as lazy and self-indulgent as I wanted without the threat of recourse or judgement. But the holiday was rushed and lacking of the warm sentiment so prevalent in Hallmark Movies of the Week. I'm sure one day as my family and I gather around the television to watch the ghosts of Christmas's past we'll inject our own fond memories as a sort of director's commentary, but, for now, my recall is at a bit of a loss. Not to say that Christmas lacking in any way, just that it wasn't at all what I had expected.
Being back in Gainesville, in my empty home, reeling from the fight I had with my father earlier, I am not surprised to find myself unhappy and my thoughts drifting to San Francisco. Today, at their house, my grandparents were adamant in voicing their disapproval in my decision to move and echoed the sentiments my parents have attempted to conceal. "Yes, Papa, I know that the cost of living there is very expensive. Yes, sir, I know the city has lots of homeless people. Actually, sir, I found the people I met there to be rather nice." The end of the evening came with a half-hearted promise to think over my choices and to possibly consider settling somewhere a bit closer to home. Unfortunately for them, and just about everyone else genetically linked to me, the impending New Year has strengthened my resolve exponentially. Unfortunately for me, I'm beginning to realize how my move will fray the already delicate strands of my support structure.
I'm finally beginning to feel weight of my eyelids, but the thought of the brief nap awaiting me offers no relief. I just hope the New Year has some happiness stored away in its thousands of moments. Even just a scrap. At this point, I'd settle for seconds.
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It's been over a month since I left him, tears fresh on my cheeks, in the parking garage of the Crown Plaza. I thought that as time passed the memories of our time together would fade, as would the rather intense way I felt towards him. I thought that the empty feeling in my stomach would fill as I returned to friends and work and routine. But, in reality, I still feel as strongly as I did then, though those feelings mingle now with hurt and confusion. I can still picture every inch of his face, his chest, his arms. I remember every second, every kiss, every word. I remember the way his skin felt next to mine, the weight of his body pressing into me, his arms wrapped so tight around my chest. I remember the way he made me feel special and beautiful and positively irresistable. I cannot help but think of him constantly. I miss him terribly, and am beginning to hate myself for it.
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I watched a Charlie Brown Christmas the other night on television. I'm frightened to admit how well I related to poor Chuck. We really are the same, he and I, take away the round, balded head and that sad, little outfit.

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I'm sitting at home, alone, cashing in on my stores of built up self-hatred. My stomach drops everytime I check the mail, my heart leaps everytime I hear the phone ring, and, without fail, the knot of disappointment knarls tighter and tighter every time neither turns out to be what I had hoped. I do this to myself, I realize, and I only make things worse by not letting go. Silence has never been a turn-off, in fact, it only piques my interest more. That whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" bullshit, you know.
A week ago, I sent him a gift. A nice little present with a nice little card and a nice little packaged piece of my heart sent priority mail. I anticipated a speedy response, but, nothing as of yet. In a sad ploy to relieve the pain, I've begun to make excuses. Maybe it didn't fit in his mailbox so it is sitting at the post office and he hasn't had time to retrieve it. Maybe, the writing blurred during shipping and the package is finding its way back here. Maybe there was an accident, like a mailman mugging or tragic car versus postal truck collision, and now my package is sitting in the evidence room of the SFPD or the city impound lot. Maybe.
I'm hurting and I've had to wage war with myself not to call or email. I'm beginning to realize that he can say anything he wants because it doesn't have to be true. I'm not there now and I won't be for months. I'm not asking to be Helen of Troy, I don't need battles fought in my name. I have enough of those to fight myself. But, I do want to be worth time and effort and pain and heartache. I want to feel loved and missed and desired and cherished. I don't even need those things now, though that would be nice. I only want to know that they are waiting for me out there, somewhere.
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I'm listening to Barry Manilow again, this can't be good. His greatest hit, "Mandy," tends to only make appearances at pity parties and sob sessions where I imagine the love of my life down on his knees belting out the words I know so well. It's pathetic, really. I should complete the picture by being hugging-the-toilet drunk, but I haven't the money to fund such a binge. Wonderful visions of white dresses and chubby pink babies have been replaced, rather suddenly, by very gray and depressing premonitions of a lifetime filled with broken hearts and lots of cats. I don't know why I thought he would be any different from the others. Experience tells me thinking so only leads to heartache and complete disappointment. I'm suddenly very glad there is no ten-run rule in the game of love, I would have had to forfeit a long time ago.
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This semester is wrapping up at a dizzying pace and I find myself with nothing to say. That might be due to the fact that my voice ran out on me in the middle of the night, abandoning me in my sleep like some casual one-night stand. No note to explain why, no phone numbers in case of an emergency, no indication of when and if it plans to return. I am left a bit resentful at its hasty departure, I have oral presentations to make throughout the rest of this week.
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Got the following little peach in my inbox today, thought I would share.
"This is a reminder that the College of Journalism and Communications will host its own separate graduation ceremony for spring 2003 term. The Registrar has assigned the day and time as FRIDAY, May 2, at 3:30 in the O'Connell Center. We need to spread this information to students ASAP. Thanks."
Let the countdown begin...
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Ever wonder what poverty looks like? I can tell you that, currently, it looks a hell of a lot like me. Enron has more money than I do.
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My mother is attempting to finish her Christmas shopping today. I know this because she keeps calling me every thirty minutes, asking me what I want. What I want? It seems almost futile to answer. I don't get to have want I want. There are gifts that I would like to have, there are gifts that I would be pleased to receive, but the one gift that I truly want is too far away to be delivered. Sigh.
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The clouds this morning sat low in the sky, providing the perfect contrast to the few trees blazing with orange and red leaves. It was a distinctly November sky, drab and colorless and sagging with rain. I love this weather, it provides those few Floridians desperate for seasons other than hot and hotter a glimpse of what life looks like above the Mason Dixon.
I've been driving myself absolutely insane all week. A close-to-crazy combination of stress, heartache and Diet Coke. I have these visions of marriage and babies running through my head every two seconds, visions that would classify anyone as certifiable padded-room material. I have freakishly large butterflies tearing up my stomach. I am distracted, to say the least, and unable to concentrate on anything but him. His face, his arms, his lips, you name, I've pondered it. It's mental to think that I could be falling this hard for someone I've only just met, someone thousands of miles away. But I am.
As exciting as it all is, though, I'm scared out of my f-ing mind. What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if I'm setting myself up for yet another heartache? I don't have the nerve to ask him and I don't think he'd tell me if I did.
Good God, I need professional help.
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Stressed beyond all possible comprehension. I have a headache that swallows my mind and spits it back out in irreconcilable pieces. I have a heartache that consumes every bit of me and makes it difficult to breathe. And I have an almost uncontrollable desire to pack it all up, put it on a plane and drop it off in front of the one person who can make it all better.
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