The days pass uneventfully.
Sitting up in bed, not a favorite place but the best I have to write, I pull up the blinds, open the window for the cold air & look out across the tops of buldings towards Market Street. The sky is black.
Not a day passes anymore that I don’t wonder who I am. More for having been through what I survived, less for what it took from me? I know that’s wrong, but gods, why is it so fucking difficult to get me back? To find the “more”?
The only thing it has taken from me is what I have let it – though I’m not certain I would call it a choice. It certainly wasn’t conscious, at any rate. It was just something I let happen. There is no denying that the fault is solely mine.
That being so, it is entirely up to me to change it.
The dreams have never gone away – I hold onto them like my last hope, my last reason. If I ever let them go… you won’t see me anymore.
Not a day passes that I don’t fight to bring back who I was – I make promises to myself to be better, to think how I did, to fight how I did, to have the passion for life that I did – and each morning I break them. There are few exceptions.
But things are changing. In my need, in my belief, I am being brought back.
Thankfully, a few people only remember who I was – and I was recently invited to work on a friend’s *incredible* project which will last roughly a year. Unpaid, but at this point, even as destitute as I am, that doesn’t matter. I’m looking for inspiration, to feel my heart beating faster, to be involved with something that combines amazing creativity and a good cause…
And she set this in my arms. “Here. Take this. Do what you can. I trust you.”
I was elated. I am. Everything showed signs of getting better…
and it will, but
Only two days ago I received a text from another friend which ripped me apart.
There was only one thing I had to look forward to, one thing I was promised and KNEW would happen. One thing I truly depended on with the person I knew I could depend on – a cross country trip with her, unrushed, mostly unmapped, renting a motorhome & just going. Getting me the hell out of this city, breaking the oppressive stagnation, pulling my feet out of the tar-pit that this life had become and breathing life into me again. I needed this…
I can’t blame her, though somewhere inside, I admit that I do. I’ve known her since I was 17 and she has always been the pragmatic one, the responsible one, the perfect match to my wandering & irresponsible ways – my dreamer self. There;s been more than one time that she said that she wished that she could be as free as me, but I think we both needed her to be exactly who she is.
The trip is cancelled. My reach outside of this sedating & glorious hell of the same people the same streets, the disinterest in day after day after everyday all day and… she just can’t afford it.
I fight with myself. She should have known that. She shouldn’t have helped me in small ways, because this is what matters most. I needed her help to survive in those small ways and she always said “I’m more than happy to” but … now this.
Everything happens for a reason.
It’s time to become who I WAS again, and maybe even fly out to NY and do what she was hoping to do for me.
I can’t imagine how hard it was for her to write that message to me. She knew I invited my birth mother.
I have five months to make this right. For all of us.
AND I CAN.