lost five pounds of baby weight in a week
(It’s ok to make light of it now, I tell myself. It is.)
π day: scored the last two slices of the day, chocolate malted caramel (at Four & Twenty Blackbirds)
Thirteen years ago, during my second year in college, I received a phone call from Brendan well after midnight. A landline with no caller ID, yet I knew it had to be him. We had a special bond, platonic and mostly unspoken, but he knew that I was suffering from depression and the symptoms of his psychiatric disorder were clearly evident. Sometimes we’d run into each other on campus and just quietly sit on a bench or on the Mario Savio steps together. Or we’d go to parties and drink and smoke too much and not have much fun at all.
So I answered his call that night. He sounded frantic, like he was on a mission and calling me was an essential part of it, something that absolutely had to happen. He hurriedly said, almost all in one breath, “I just want to let you know, to let you know, to tell you that I know. I know you’re sad and I want you to know that everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. You’ll be ok.” I was speechless. He said he had to go as he was calling from a pay phone. I don’t think I said much in response. As soon as we hung up, I began crying; I felt comforted by his words, but I was saddened because I knew he was going through a manic period. I also cried because I deeply wanted to believe him, but in my downward spiral the thought of feeling ok (not even happy) seemed like a nearly impossible feat.
This event is burned into my memory. I think it always will be. I miss Brendan and I wonder how he’s doing now. I want to tell him that I’ve been trying, trying so very hard.
I didn’t complete my memoir sketchbook for the Sketchbook 2013 project. Why? There were, and are, more pressing matters for me to take care of before I can share myself in the ways I had hoped to in the little brown paper-covered journal that would have traveled the country in a hipsterly humble mobile library. I did write in it. I had saved scraps of other note paper on which I had jotted down fragmented thoughts, rants, outpourings of love and heartbreak, of hopes and dreams and monstrosities. I had plans to embroider these ephemeral moments onto the tabula rasa pages of the neatly barcoded sketchbook. The barcode on the back cover won’t be scanned after all. I’m ok with this now. I had scrambled to finish the project at the local coffee shop for a few weekends but then I reached acceptance. I wasn’t ready to deliver. And that’s ok. I still have it. WIP.