It’s so quiet out for a
Friday night. Unusually
quiet, I feel like I'm the only one here.
Billie Holiday is playing softly as I begin this. I could
cry, I really could.
It’s been a long time since my last daylog. Weeks have gone by, as have road trips, roaming infections of various diseases making a playground of my body, and a nearly crippling depression coming from deep left field. Today was the first ‘good’ day I've had in a fairly long time, and now I can feel it slipping away from me again.
I’ve begun to worry their might be something wrong with me.
Weeks pass and I barely notice. I've begun sleeping late, ignoring obligations. I’ve stopped answering the phone on occasion as well. Beautiful Girl worries about me, I know. I ask her not to, tell her that I’ll be fine. I usually am.
Today was a good day. Beautiful weather; sky the clearest blue you’d ever want to see. I enjoyed the sunshine, cleaned, ran errands and felt like I had some worth. It was lovely, getting things done; dancing around the room after a shower and feeling mostly good about nearly anything.
So now it’s late evening and I’m listening to Billie Holiday and feel like I've been hollowed-out. Crying alone seems so futile, and overly dramatic—a waste of energy. It’s strange: I've ceased to trust my thoughts. They vary so much from mood to mood, I no longer feel that I'm capable of making sound decisions. My relationship with Beautiful Girl is crumbling, and it entirely my fault. We’ll be fine eventually, but all she does is worry about me, and all I do is try desperately to feel normal. I love her, I do. I don't need to convince myself of that. Still, this doesn't stop me from worrying. She has her own problems, and all I do is bring her down. I don't think she realizes that I need her to be the stable one right now. I don't want her worry, or her feelings of doubt about me. I don't what to hear that I should see someone. I'm just so fucking weak right now. Don't feel like much of a man.
Shit. I don't even trust myself right now. What I feel now may be totally different from what I feel in a few days, or even tomorrow morning. Actually, that would be lovely to wake up to.
Billie has such a beautiful voice. That voice is the reason people fall in love. It’s something to soak in, to feel that temperature change and your head lighten. There’s more emotion in that soft sound than all the world’s offering, and she uses it with such ease; a casual thing. When she says she will always love him, you know she means it. There’s no compromise, so suggestion of doubt. She will love; it’s so simple. I want Billie to sing to me. I want to be that man who is so easy to be with. I want to make love to that voice.
I’ve wanted all night to drink myself into a shallow coma, perhaps writing a bit on the way down, yet my liquor cabinet is dry and, therefore, so am I. This scares me, this compulsion to drink. Yet another symptom that something may be seriously wrong with me.
Billie’s been down so long that down don’t worry her. I wish I could be so stoic. It’s late and I’m not sure what I’m writing at this point. I’ll most likely nuke this in the morning—I should know better than to write when I’m like this. I could really curl up and lay my head on someone’s lap. Something warm to put my head against. How long has it been since someone has kissed me on the forehead? I can’t remember that last time my hair was smoothed back with a cool hand, words whispered in a gentle mantra to fall asleep to: “Everything’s going to be alright.”
This is all I need, more than anything. I’m so very tired.