Strawflowers

        I feel like I’m walking underwater. My mind is muddled; reality and dream and memory and even things I watch on TV are all shuffled together. My blurred vision has made my already-shrunken world collapse even further on itself. Time is meaningless aside from doctor appointments. I have slipped into a hole and I feel that when, if, I ever get out of it, the world above will have completely changed. 

        I know it seems like I over share, but really I show impressive restraint. There is a lot I don’t talk about publically, for fear of hurting people, or risking them recoiling in disgust. I don’t want to further alienate myself. I’ve written a lot this week, but it’s mostly things I can’t share with anyone. And despite my efforts to make things entertaining, a lot of this shit is just really boring. 

        I did talk to a new therapist this week. Intake is always exhausting; you’re trying to explain clearly where you’re at, and they keep probing for you to explain your entire life history. I spewed out as much as I could, and at the end of the session she said, not unkindly, “Well, that’s…a lot.” She’s blind, and I wonder if this helps her concentrate on what she’s hearing. I know that talking is not going to solve my problems but I need to do something. I don’t feel able to keep my world from completely unraveling.

        My mind is muddled, I feel like my head is buzzing with static. I meditate twice a day but can’t reach a state of equilibrium. I stare into space a lot, unable to focus on the fuzzy shapes. I continually try to remind myself of what I still have. I can read, I can write, I can draw. I can walk around, I can eat, I can pay my rent. Olivia jumps into my lap each morning as I drink my coffee. I’m lonely but I still have friends and family who care about me and help me out. The future is uncertain, but when has it ever been otherwise? 

        Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, and it’ll be the twentieth anniversary of one of the happiest moments of my life. I know it does no good, but it’s difficult to resist the temptation to look at that memory and compare it to where I am today. It’s like looking at the before and after pictures from the old Faces of Meth shock pieces the paper printed when I first moved here, except the before and after shots have been swapped. And this will be the first St. Patrick’s Day without poor Shane McGowan, so I can’t even play the Pogues without weeping.

        But Spring has besieged the city. Cherry blossoms are exploding, daffodils and crocuses and tulips and a thousand other blossoms are jockeying for attention. The citizens of Portland are exposing their pale winter flesh to the sun, and it’s a good thing I can’t really see it; these first few weeks of nice weather are a nightmare for the lonely and sexually stifled. It’s only March, though. The nights are still chilly, and we could still get snow. The only plants on the balcony that survived the winter are the lavender and columbine, both of which look happy. I bought a few lupines to keep them company. Last weekend I bought a bunch of seeds –strawflowers, Thai basil, two types of zinnia- and will get them started in egg cartons today. I have no confidence that any of them will sprout. But what a wonderful surprise if they do.