I lay in my bed tonight, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t identify this feeling that’s been gripping me all week. There’s been something, a muscle, a residual electrical impulse lost in a synaptic cleft somewhere, something that’s been keeping me on edge.
And I lay there, ceiling in sight and I wondered, “Why the fuck can’t I fall to sleep?”
What is that feeling that’s so desperately trying to force its way to my attention? Did I turn the oven off? Did I send that last work email? Why haven’t I been able to get all my work done in the office this week?
Wait. Haven’t I completely sucked at my job all week? Yes.
What’s distracting me? Could it be the pressure of work, but I can’t concentrate at work because something else is bothering me. Maybe it’s from the lack of exercise this week. Maybe it’s the feeling that my dreams are further away than they were a year ago.
More than likely, it stems from upcoming move 30 days from today. I have no plan, no place and no guarantee I’ll be able to afford an apartment on my own. Terrifying, but that’s a new development, not something that explains my lack of game all week.
I think it’s because I haven’t been going to the gym. Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got extra energy to burn or possibly some embarrassment about how I’ve let myself go over the last two years after a year of dedicated and hard work. That sounds plausible.
Although, it could also be the fact that roughly two months ago I cut someone out of my life without much abandon, expecting that I’d just adapt as I always have in the past. All wounds heal, but it’s the ones that leave a scar that you remember.
But while we’re on the subject of pain, I have a nephew I’ve never met that’s apparently very sick and no one knows what’s wrong with him. He’s less than two months old and at the moment, they know what’s wrong, but not why or how. A mystery to some and a battle to the death for others.
And then there’s that thought again. In the dark, as my mind rapidly moves from one thing to another my mind resonates with the word that has defined me at every moment of my life; the singular, “You.”
“How are you going to deal with this? What can you do? What’s your plan? What the hell are you doing?”
It’s the usted, not the ustedes, to make it clear for my Spanish 101 graduates. That’s a singular you and not a y’all for my midwestern cow-tippers.
It seems that in my moment of crisis, even my mind has taken a step to the other side and left me subject to my own interrogation.
Me. Alone.
I started to tremble. I was literally shaking beneath the covers.
I had to get up, had to escape from that moment.
In a moment of weakness, I searched my phone contacts. Who can I call at 1 in the morning? Who’s awake? No one. Just me, like always.
I look to my friend Jamison to take the shakes away, to comfort me in a singular, human moment.
I sit in my one chair and think…then stop. Stop thinking, stop planing, just be.
I’m not blaming myself for my exile, but I have some responsibility to the yolk. I moved to Los Angeles, knowing full well that it’s a difficult town. I moved away from friends and family, placing myself outside my comfort zone and into the dream-scape; I’m at least on the game field, I just have the score the goal.
I have no answers. I’m going to finish my whiskey on the rocks and pour myself a second before bed. I’m going to sit and listen to music while I promise myself that it’ll be ok; while I pray for the strength to wake up and make tomorrow mine.
I’m only human. I can only do so much, but I’m going to do my best. Who knows where I’ll be in four weeks?
