I feel heavy going back to journaling since the last time I wrote, that day I was broken up with and have not wanted to address the pit of gut-sadness.
Jess said they weren’t feeling it, needed “me time,” that it wasn’t a reflection on me etc. Elegantly worded, fair, and admirable. Still hard not to take personally. After a brief and stilted phone conversation I left them alone.
Of course my friends experienced the brunt of my heartbreak, because I am both a weeper and a drunk. Cole gave me a big hug and offered to start a noise-band with me, Alex et. all offered to take me out for drinks, and Chris Brodsky led me to his truck where he filled a beautiful handmade ceramic mug with vodka. He gave me the cup and its contents, said if I broke it he’d make me a new one.
An overarching sentiment from friends and roommates was that they wished they could feel something as strongly as I do. I can’t imagine not feeling things intensely – sounds great.
The next day was nice smelling and gray. I had set up my first appointment with a therapist the previous week. I had a feeling we would work well together and he said the same. We talked about being weepers, about being queers, and about what the self is.
My therapist is somewhere around 80 and is well acquainted with grief. He has been widowed 3 times, came out late in life, has a down syndrome daughter, has AIDS, and is in recovery from substance abuse. He has smiley eyes.