Prelude to Day One
I’m fasting for 3 days.
Wish I could say it was for some noble reason, but it’s solely for me.
To qualify fasting: No solid food.
My doctor has informed me that lifestyle is far too active to warrant me taking in no sustenance. It's on his advice I am undertaking this admittedly far from difficult task.
It will be difficult for me though, which apparently is why I have to do it. My days are numbers, graphs, moving in measured steps and somewhere recently, I've lost count.
“Break the cycle” he says, as if it’s that easy. “A mental cleansing of sorts”.
Shakabooko, I think. Meaning: A swift spiritual kick to the head that alters your perception of reality for ever.
Sure, I could use one of those - but so could most people I know.
Here’s where I continually error: I’m not most people and "You have to stop trying to be. It’s a hell of a lot to live up to". Mike nods resolutely.
“Just drink energy drinks, protein shakes, take multi-vitamins and your serotonin blocker, and for God's sake, breathe Hollay. Do it with me now”.
I raise an eyebrow and watch Mike close his eyes and a few long, deep breaths. When he hears no accompanying breathing, he opens one eye and commands, “Breathe!”
I exhale, realizing I have been holding my breath again - a tendency that comes naturally when I feel uncomfortable. I’ve passed out on more than one occasion.
Last night, Erin stopped by to see me after we were both done work. We were supposed to see Georgette Frye at a local blues bar, but my swollen eyes and the broken blood vessels in my face testified that I wasn’t as “fine” as I insisted.
It’s only been recently that I’ll let people see me when I get that bad. While not the worst episode by far, it was certainly up there with a few classics. I still feel ashamed.
“I wish I could just get automatically transferred to a desert island somewhere anytime this happens”, I tell Erin through a mouthful of some cookie-dough, brownie Ben and Jerry’s concotion she brought me - at my misguided request. “It’s disgusting”. I’m not sure if I’m referring more to myself or the fact a just polished off the pint in under 15 minutes.
“People care about you, hon. You can’t push them out”.
And some part of her knows, I’m sure, that pushing things out, away is what I do best. That, and advocate rotary phones.
“Jim loves you”, she continues, “So do I. We don’t want to see you hurt”.
I smile.
My Erin. Poet, blues enthusiast, hand-talker and recently, homewrecker - though I’d argue that there was never a home to wreck. When she’s uncomfortable, she says shocking things. Likes cream-soda slushies and Lowest of the Low. Has a tattoo of a shamrock on her shoulder and a moon on her foot. Can laugh herself in and out of a room full of pain with the intensity and august determination of a tidal wave. I’ve never loved anyone like I love her.
She didn’t like me when we first met.
She’s also a hyprocrite and she knows it. A fellow princess of self-inflicted pain. We are quite a pair. Some people might wonder if we do each other more harm than good. I think the distinction doesn’t apply to us.
She tactfully changes the conversation to her sex life, which she reminds me I once described as “the most degrading sex life I have ever heard of”. I stand by my statement. I laugh with her about a recent episode, involving a grown man using the word “boobies” and being ushered out the backdoor in the middle of the day.
My feet have started to go numb and by the end of her reverie, my hips are tingling.
“I think I’m just going to go to bed now”, I tell her. “Thanks so much for stopping in”.
“When’s Jim getting home?” she asks.
I remind her that Jim’s playing at a benefit concert for a young man who was recently murdered. “But soon, I’d imagine.”
“Ok. Well, call me if you need anything” she pauses. “Not that you will”.
I woke up with morning with my mind on-fire.
Day one.
Wish I could say it was for some noble reason, but it’s solely for me.
To qualify fasting: No solid food.
My doctor has informed me that lifestyle is far too active to warrant me taking in no sustenance. It's on his advice I am undertaking this admittedly far from difficult task.
It will be difficult for me though, which apparently is why I have to do it. My days are numbers, graphs, moving in measured steps and somewhere recently, I've lost count.
“Break the cycle” he says, as if it’s that easy. “A mental cleansing of sorts”.
Shakabooko, I think. Meaning: A swift spiritual kick to the head that alters your perception of reality for ever.
Sure, I could use one of those - but so could most people I know.
Here’s where I continually error: I’m not most people and "You have to stop trying to be. It’s a hell of a lot to live up to". Mike nods resolutely.
“Just drink energy drinks, protein shakes, take multi-vitamins and your serotonin blocker, and for God's sake, breathe Hollay. Do it with me now”.
I raise an eyebrow and watch Mike close his eyes and a few long, deep breaths. When he hears no accompanying breathing, he opens one eye and commands, “Breathe!”
I exhale, realizing I have been holding my breath again - a tendency that comes naturally when I feel uncomfortable. I’ve passed out on more than one occasion.
Last night, Erin stopped by to see me after we were both done work. We were supposed to see Georgette Frye at a local blues bar, but my swollen eyes and the broken blood vessels in my face testified that I wasn’t as “fine” as I insisted.
It’s only been recently that I’ll let people see me when I get that bad. While not the worst episode by far, it was certainly up there with a few classics. I still feel ashamed.
“I wish I could just get automatically transferred to a desert island somewhere anytime this happens”, I tell Erin through a mouthful of some cookie-dough, brownie Ben and Jerry’s concotion she brought me - at my misguided request. “It’s disgusting”. I’m not sure if I’m referring more to myself or the fact a just polished off the pint in under 15 minutes.
“People care about you, hon. You can’t push them out”.
And some part of her knows, I’m sure, that pushing things out, away is what I do best. That, and advocate rotary phones.
“Jim loves you”, she continues, “So do I. We don’t want to see you hurt”.
I smile.
My Erin. Poet, blues enthusiast, hand-talker and recently, homewrecker - though I’d argue that there was never a home to wreck. When she’s uncomfortable, she says shocking things. Likes cream-soda slushies and Lowest of the Low. Has a tattoo of a shamrock on her shoulder and a moon on her foot. Can laugh herself in and out of a room full of pain with the intensity and august determination of a tidal wave. I’ve never loved anyone like I love her.
She didn’t like me when we first met.
She’s also a hyprocrite and she knows it. A fellow princess of self-inflicted pain. We are quite a pair. Some people might wonder if we do each other more harm than good. I think the distinction doesn’t apply to us.
She tactfully changes the conversation to her sex life, which she reminds me I once described as “the most degrading sex life I have ever heard of”. I stand by my statement. I laugh with her about a recent episode, involving a grown man using the word “boobies” and being ushered out the backdoor in the middle of the day.
My feet have started to go numb and by the end of her reverie, my hips are tingling.
“I think I’m just going to go to bed now”, I tell her. “Thanks so much for stopping in”.
“When’s Jim getting home?” she asks.
I remind her that Jim’s playing at a benefit concert for a young man who was recently murdered. “But soon, I’d imagine.”
“Ok. Well, call me if you need anything” she pauses. “Not that you will”.
I woke up with morning with my mind on-fire.
Day one.