Dealing Well (Enough)
I am not deaf.
At least, not yet. The ear seems to be recovering. I can hear the inside of my head fine; my pulse, and the distortion from my voice thrumming through grey matter and bone. Everything outside is still wrong from one direction: speakers warble, and music changes key -- I can't listen to the stereo without it sounding discord. I figure that it's just clogged with the remnants of infection proper, so I plan on returning to the doctor to see if he can flush this nonsense out.
Also, am I not completely unemployed -- in order to get that distinction I first have to wait it out until the change-over, when All-of-the-Above takes possession of the business, and hopefully offers me a little extra money just to walk away (a lay-off, they call it). Otherwise, the onus is on me to quit, which I would prefer not to do until I have another establishment to walk away to... which means I may have to work for the fellow for a couple of weeks until I can flee with safety, and watch everything I have enjoyed doing suffer chaos and disorder... which starts to give me an ulcer when I think about it. Ugh.
...
What my surrogate-nonsexual-hetro-boyfriend calls "therapy", I call a good ol' fashioned bender. By his definition, I have been in therapy for a good solid week. Having no incentive to even to be coherent at work (though I promise, I do manage), I have been propelling my uncertainty (over the source of monetary funds), my sadness (tied to my mother and her resignation, the divorce proceedings), and the sum of my frustration/anger/worry all the way to the bottom of the bottle, where things go swimmingly. Who says annihilating brain-cells can't help? Don't they always say that ignorance is bliss? Well, I'm workin' my way back to that place just outside of the womb, my friends: no language, no concept.
That's not entirely true. Therapy has been in effect, but it's been in company. It hasn't been quite so destructive, so desolate, as I have had it in the past. I think that I am -- slowly... ever so slowly -- learning how to use the crutches with a bit of finesse, and not knock everything over on the way to the bathroom.
We'll call it group therapy then, and it has included some really wonderful experiences:
Like eating a $3000 meal with my all my compatriots from the restaurant, tasting food and wine, and being treated to the kind of service we've been proud to offer others. Like sitting up with the surrogate-nonsexual-hetero-boyfriend, playing poker till sunrise; or days later, dancing with him at 3am and being kicked out onto the street, into an empty city suffering a little chill, then walking through the night-pierced campus of the University, and sitting on the steps of the Legislature, talking out all the problems we could find with the world. Like Cobra gabbing my ear off for three hours straight because she hadn't seen me in a week and a half. Like getting a call from Satan's Little Pixie on Saturday during a depressing shift at work, leading me to forego sleep in favor of bits and a serious catch-up session. Which led to (again) dancing, and talking, and holding hands; and the re-establishment of all the things we needn't worry about: the love and the support that is there from all the work that has been put in over the last six years with the people who really inspire me, the unquantifiable resources of kismet and kindness.
What I can count on, despite an inchoate existence wandering towards an undisclosed direction, are many of the things that make a life worth living in the first place. These are the same things that people nearing the end of the road use to sum up their success, not the sandcastles, but the quality relationships that carry you through.
What sappy nonsense. This is what happens when you drink every day for a week, do some drugs and lose some sleep.
Yes, they are all fabulous. I am also cute and lovable. Things aren't so bloody bad.
I really am a lucky son-of-a-bitch.
At least, not yet. The ear seems to be recovering. I can hear the inside of my head fine; my pulse, and the distortion from my voice thrumming through grey matter and bone. Everything outside is still wrong from one direction: speakers warble, and music changes key -- I can't listen to the stereo without it sounding discord. I figure that it's just clogged with the remnants of infection proper, so I plan on returning to the doctor to see if he can flush this nonsense out.
Also, am I not completely unemployed -- in order to get that distinction I first have to wait it out until the change-over, when All-of-the-Above takes possession of the business, and hopefully offers me a little extra money just to walk away (a lay-off, they call it). Otherwise, the onus is on me to quit, which I would prefer not to do until I have another establishment to walk away to... which means I may have to work for the fellow for a couple of weeks until I can flee with safety, and watch everything I have enjoyed doing suffer chaos and disorder... which starts to give me an ulcer when I think about it. Ugh.
...
What my surrogate-nonsexual-hetro-boyfriend calls "therapy", I call a good ol' fashioned bender. By his definition, I have been in therapy for a good solid week. Having no incentive to even to be coherent at work (though I promise, I do manage), I have been propelling my uncertainty (over the source of monetary funds), my sadness (tied to my mother and her resignation, the divorce proceedings), and the sum of my frustration/anger/worry all the way to the bottom of the bottle, where things go swimmingly. Who says annihilating brain-cells can't help? Don't they always say that ignorance is bliss? Well, I'm workin' my way back to that place just outside of the womb, my friends: no language, no concept.
That's not entirely true. Therapy has been in effect, but it's been in company. It hasn't been quite so destructive, so desolate, as I have had it in the past. I think that I am -- slowly... ever so slowly -- learning how to use the crutches with a bit of finesse, and not knock everything over on the way to the bathroom.
We'll call it group therapy then, and it has included some really wonderful experiences:
Like eating a $3000 meal with my all my compatriots from the restaurant, tasting food and wine, and being treated to the kind of service we've been proud to offer others. Like sitting up with the surrogate-nonsexual-hetero-boyfriend, playing poker till sunrise; or days later, dancing with him at 3am and being kicked out onto the street, into an empty city suffering a little chill, then walking through the night-pierced campus of the University, and sitting on the steps of the Legislature, talking out all the problems we could find with the world. Like Cobra gabbing my ear off for three hours straight because she hadn't seen me in a week and a half. Like getting a call from Satan's Little Pixie on Saturday during a depressing shift at work, leading me to forego sleep in favor of bits and a serious catch-up session. Which led to (again) dancing, and talking, and holding hands; and the re-establishment of all the things we needn't worry about: the love and the support that is there from all the work that has been put in over the last six years with the people who really inspire me, the unquantifiable resources of kismet and kindness.
What I can count on, despite an inchoate existence wandering towards an undisclosed direction, are many of the things that make a life worth living in the first place. These are the same things that people nearing the end of the road use to sum up their success, not the sandcastles, but the quality relationships that carry you through.
What sappy nonsense. This is what happens when you drink every day for a week, do some drugs and lose some sleep.
Yes, they are all fabulous. I am also cute and lovable. Things aren't so bloody bad.
I really am a lucky son-of-a-bitch.
Sadness and ennui can wait another day.
Comments