I woke to the hangover— of sadness, anxiety, dark feelings that pulled me into sleep last night… after hours of sitting alone watching the bay. The reasons are personal, they don’t matter in the big picture. What matters is how easily I fall into a hole when the world starts to pile too high for me. When I work so hard to smile and be funny, to fix it and figure it out, and make it all look ok, when it’s not—it’s no wonder I crash. And burn. I drive off in my car, me and Peter Gabriel. Where is the resolution? Where are the thousand churches? I sit and watch the full moon shine in our crystal night. The rainbow glow around it gives me hope, for a while.
I woke to puffy eyes and a worn expression. Avoiding mirrors. I woke too early, having gone to bed too late. I tried to sleep some more, but the same thoughts that drove me off to solitude last night assault me in bed as well. I curl up tighter and push the thoughts away, but they are stronger than me—at times like this. I am lost in the confusion of what to do. What to do with big things. I turn it all on myself and go from blue to black and back to blue again. Turning every slight, every insensitive word, each turn of a meaningless phrase, each misunderstanding and slip of a tongue— into a lash of self loathing, regret, remorse, longing. It sucks me down like quicksand, suffocating. Blinding flashes that leave me frozen and staring at the bay, long into the night.
My car is always the place I go first. My music is there. My solitude. The lights of the dash and the warm seats bring comfort. It is a cocoon that is all mine. If I could, I would drive and drive, and drive some more, with my music blaring and the windows down. But it would not be safe, when I am black and blue. So I sit in my car; always the first place I go. Last night, I went to the movies next. Foolish me; I never read Tolstoy. I went to see Anna Karenina. The theater was mostly empty, perfect. The movie was beautiful, stunning even. The cinematography swept me away from my dark thoughts. The magic of the production and the rich imagery helped me forget for a while. I was transfixed by everything on the screen, and began to think that perhaps I would go home and read this great book., finally. It suited me, helping me escape for a while, but I didn’t know the ending. I won’t ruin it for others, but it is not an ending for someone in the black, or the blue. I left and drove back to the bay.
The water at night is always so mesmerizing. Lights from the city and across the islands twinkle and reflect. The full moon shimmers across the surface. The added holiday lights are so beautiful this time of year. If not for the lights of the passing cars, it would be perfect. Scared to death by two stupid slasher films, in my youth, I am not one to park in isolated lonely places. I park where someone can hear me, if I need them to. The drawback are the cars. My twisty turny brain can only think: will they see me here, crying? Will they recognize me? Then they’ll know.
Eventually I go home. I always do. I slink back in, unwilling, unwanting, resenting the inevitable questions… words, words, words. Words are my friend when I write them; words slash me, spoken by others. “Where have you been? Are you ok? I’m sorry. You misunderstood…” You got it wrong, again. I only want silence. I lay in my bed and try to quiet my battering thoughts. I wake hungover; still black and blue today.