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At Inman Perk this morning I’m dispensing coffee that is titled “Wired, not Tired Blend”. I haven’t slept a full eight hours in a week and it’s finally catching up to me. I see that I’ve managed, for the time being, to swallow my grief then let other things be swallowed, sitting on top of it, trying to bury it. I then somehow expect my head to properly digest everything I’ve fed it and figure it out but it gets scrambled and things don’t always come out right. It’s really hard to take every single minute, one at a time and understand that even though I may not know where I’m going, I’m going to end up where I’m supposed to be.
As I was putting on make up before getting to Inman Perk my head was swimming with thoughts of the new charms I found in the mail on Friday night. I knew what they were before tearing open the package and pouring them out on to the counter. My hands moved at the speed of light, putting things together, getting lost in it within seconds. I’m now understanding what Rob would tell me about the “zone” he’d get into when working on cars and things. Not that I don’t zone out when I write but that’s different.
I paint thick, black mascara on the lashes that extend from my right eye and I think ‘what has got me so intrigued with creating things?’ What’s got me so excited about making a necklace, when I’ve tried before, only to put it away and forget about it? I wouldn’t be doing this if Rob were still here.
Thoughts of Chicago float into the edges of my thought process. When I made the decision to move, part of that decision to leave was to expand my career as a hairdresser. I still have unanswered questions and want to learn in a controlled environment again. Being an assistant after nearly five years as a stylist will be quite an adjustment but I was finally willing to do it again. I planned to become an educator after completing Art and Science’s education program. I enjoy teaching and know I’ll learn even more in the process. It’s taken me years to get to this point, to want to cleanse myself of the experience of my previous employer, and be willing to learn again.
Then Rob walked in and I fell head over heels in love. I was determined to stick with my plan though. I was going to move no matter what. If he wanted to stick around then I’d be there. I was tired of putting things off for other people, not that he asked me to, but just living my life for other people in general hasn’t worked out so well.
When he died it left me completely dumbfounded. Career expanding has no longer become the most important thing on my life’s ‘to-do’ list. I am suddenly turned on by expanding creatively. I’m quite interested the process of actually making something. When I write, I have a general idea of where I’d like to go and every time I begin, the words take off in their own direction and I sit back and watch. For years I fought this. I wasn’t open to the change in my ‘plan’ when writing, painting or even haircutting. I now see that this is how it is. This is how the process happens and the more open I am to it, the better it gets.
I was talking to a client about it earlier this week. She paints for a living and was explaining to me that as soon as she puts the brush to the canvas the paint takes on it’s own identity and she’s just the channel for it to come through. I’m learning that even when I don’t feel like writing because I don’t know what to say, it eventually comes out if I just put pen to paper, or just turn the computer on.
I finish my make-up, head out for coffee, then work. For the first time this week, I’m not thinking about food, or when I’m going to sleep again but about the head of hair that’s in my hands. My first client is Robert. I’ve been doing his hair since I started at Salonred. He brought me a bottle of wine. A Cabernet, which is my favorite. Rob and I drank the most cabernets out of all the wine we experienced together.
“I brought this for you out of my wine cellar.” he tells me. “You eat meat right?”
“I do.” I smile, thinking this wine would be perfect with some “man food” as Rob called it.
“Good. It’s really good with a nice steak.”
I knew it!
“So get a nice wine glass, swirl it around and enjoy it with some red meat.” Robert smiles at me.
My eyes flood with tears as I think about his words. It’s almost as if Rob has picked out this bottle for me and is talking to me through my client. Those words are the same words he’d use to explain enjoying a glass of wine. He was good and taking things slowly, whereas I’m the one in a hurry all the time.
I blink a million times while keeping my blades moving, trying to get the hair done without crying. When I’m finished he hugs me and leaves. Every forty five minutes there is something new in my chair and I’m happy to see everyone. When I finish my last haircut and pack up I feel the insanity of the week sneak up behind me.
I’m driving to my parents. There is nothing to do in the car but think. Random thoughts float in and out of my head from which necklace am I’m going to start making first to the charms I’m going to put together once I get there, then on to details of Rob’s funeral, the color of his casket, and the fact that I still haven’t come to grips with the idea that I’ll never see him again. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.
I decide to wallow in my misery a little longer and put in his favorite cd. Over and over I listen to the song he had recently become so attached to and remember us sitting on a couch at Java Vino two days before he died. He wanted me to look up the lyrics to it and hear the whole thing that night, as he could only remember the chorus. Days after he died I had it memorized.
By the time I make to my parents, I’ve stopped crying and feel better. I absolutely cannot wait to pour out everything I’ve bought and make something sparkly. Mom and I engage in our usual endless chatter while I’m cutting, wrapping, cussing at, and squeezing wire that is holding various charms together. She is trying to organize and color code everything for me.
“Does this look right?” I ask her and hold up a chain that I layered with other chains.
“Yeah.” she looks up at it. “Well wait.“ She points to the right side which is higher. “You’re a little off balance.”
To say the least.
“Dammit. I’ve gone over this three times. I’m going to put it on you and then fix it.” I get up and place the chain around her neck then undo the links with pliers until it’s fixed.
“Better?” she bats her eyes at me.
“Much!” I laugh and get back to it.
A couple of hours later we eat dinner then mom and I are back into the projects. More hours pass, and it’s finally midnight. Mom decides she’s going to sleep. I should but I’m not done yet. My finger tips are turning gray from the wire and I get lost a couple of times trying to figure out what to do next. Despite the frustration of not knowing what I’m doing, that every move I make is a trial and error one, I still enjoy every minute spent making the sparklies. For once in my life I feel I’m turning into someone I actually want to be. Someone I could actually love.

Mess...

I wish I could have recorded everything that happened today. I wish I could fully explain what went through my head, fully grasp and be able to communicate each interaction. It’s beyond my own comprehension and very difficult to put out there.
During OA meetings I’ve heard people say that they were “high” on food or they “got high” that day on something sweet or salty. I didn’t understand that. I never feel much of anything when I eat but relief from whatever it is that’s bothering me, then guilt when it’s over, when I realize what I just did.
I didn’t give in to food today. I felt myself buzzing around the salon, chatting with my co-workers and clients unaware of myself or my feelings. I swear it’s as if something else takes over my body and instructs it to do my job and be ‘normal’. I have come to realize that I’ve become so adept at hiding my feelings that I don’t know I’m hiding them at times. Professionally this is a skill that I’m proud of. My clients see a consistently bubbly person, never without a smile. Personally, I’m embarrassed. It keeps me from having real relationships with people. I can morph into anything depending on the company I’m with. It’s something I’m just now learning to correct.
There is no caffeine pulsing through my bloodstream but I feel as if I’ve had three large cups of coffee. I can’t sit still. I am talking to a co-worker while simultaneously texting my ‘situation’. The more my phone beeps with a new message the quicker my heart beats, the more elated my head becomes. “Are you high?!” I scream to myself after texting back to him something I don’t want to repeat again. What is the matter with me?! My fingers are flying faster than my brain can keep up with, all the while I’m smiling and laughing with my co-worker, as if nothing is happening. “This must be what it’s like.” I think to myself. “This is what it feels like to be high.” I am reckless with my responses to him, saying exactly what it is that’s going through my head. I’m practically floating, not feeling my feet hit the ground and I like it up here. I am completely detached from reality and it’s fabulous. He asks if he can call me. I feel my legs stand and walk outside after replying yes. I want to hear his voice. I have fifteen minutes before my next client.
I sit outside on the stairs that are up against our building. It’s official. I have lost my damn mind. My legs shake. I can actually see them shaking. I press my knees together and put my left hand on them, trying to calm them down. “Is this what I want?” I think to myself as I hear the ringing on the other end of the phone. “Why am I not calling my sponsor? I’m going on a binge although it’s not with food.”
“Hi!” I answer, my voice is high pitched.
“Hey!”
After a few minutes of ‘how are you’s?’ he says, “You’re not ok are you?”
How did he know?
“Nope.” I reply, wearing a smile bigger then Texas, ‘cause I don’t know what else to do.
“You wanted this to stop remember?” he quietly states.
“Pay attention to nothing I say.”
“I am one big chocolate chip cookie to you.” he tells me.
“I know.” I sigh, not sure of what to say.
“You’re creating all this chaos in your life.” he reminds me.
“Yup.” I sigh again. He’s right. I do this. More than I’d like to admit. It’s the chaos that sparks my writing, and makes me feel something. Even though I’m racing around at the speed of light, never stopping, occasionally getting into trouble, I still find a way to somehow process whatever is in my head better when everything is up in the air. Or maybe that’s what I tell myself.
“So what’s going on? Talk to me.”
I can’t find words. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard already. I’m crazy, trying to find my way through the vast expanse of grief. I explain that I’m so overwhelmed with things I want to do and things I have to do and work that I don’t know where to start or what to do.
He suggests a few things but I’m not looking for him to solve my problems.
“What else can I do for you?” he asks.
“Be here.”
“That I can do.”
It doesn’t change how I feel. Doesn’t help the fact that I still want to rip his clothes off and when I tell him this he agrees with me and says in plain English what he is to me. Not like I didn’t know, it’s just hearing it that pops my crack-enhanced bubble and sends me descending back to Earth with a loud thump, sobering me up, and when I open my eyes, I feel mute.
“I have to go back.” I say when I realize my client is probably inside.
“Ok. It was good to talk to you.”
“Same here.”
We get off the phone and somehow, I make it back inside and start my next client, then the next one, then Catherine comes in. I saw her in March and told her all about Rob. There is something really awesome about Catherine. There’s a coolness about her that immediately makes you want to befriend her, hoping that some of that nonchalant coolness rubs off on you. She’s one of those people you feel safe being completely open with. When she sits in my chair, my ring catches her eye.
“Are you?!” she gasps.
“No.” I smile. “I have so much to tell you.” My hands run through her black hair and I take a deep breath.
“Ok” she nods.
“I was actually going to call you and I’m sorry I didn’t but I knew I’d see you at some point. Um…Rob was killed in a car accident in April.”
“What?! Oh my gosh!”
“Yeah, so it’s been crazy.”
“I’m so sorry! Oh my gosh!” she stands. “Let me give you a hug.”
Please, please, please.
I wrap my arms around her and dissolve, crying into her hair. I want this nightmare to be over with. When I let her go, she’s crying.
“That is the most awful thing I’ve heard. This has been one shitty twelve months. I lost my dad, then my best friend, and now Rob?”
“What?” I knew about her dad but not her best friend.
She explains her friend’s death then I explain Rob’s. Stuff I didn’t know I was capable of talking about at this moment came out. I told her about dad’s phone call, about going to Rob’s apartment, about speaking at his funeral, about the ring I bought, about everything I’ve felt in the past eight weeks. She heard it all, never interrupting, never asking anything, just letting me ramble.
After I got her shampooed I run the comb down the side of her head and exclaim, “I wanted to marry Rob!”
“I know.” she says. “I know I don’t know you very well but you sparkled when you talked about him. It was very “Sound of Music”, like little blue birds should be singing around you.”
The cracks me up. She tells me more details of her father’s death and how she’s been feeling. I’ve lost all concept of time while listening to her describe him, their relationship and how she feels there’s unfinished business and how she wants to go back and fix it. I inhale her words.
“I feel I’ve gotten closer with my step mom. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her.”
I nod.
“She says that 10pm is the hardest time.”
“Why?” I ask.
“That’s when she and my dad would stop what they were doing, turn off the T.V. or whatever, and sit and talk. For fifteen years they did this.”
I’m trying not to cry again, knowing that emptiness. Rob called me every day around 9pm. I stopped looking at the clock so much.
I realize as I finish her that my 6:30 no showed. It’s almost 7. I guess God thought I needed more time with Catherine. I told my friend Jeff I’d squeeze him in tonight. I can’t believe Catherine has been in my chair for an hour and fifteen minutes. It felt like thirty seconds. I don’t want her to go.
“I promise next time I’ll make you laugh.” she smiles.
“Deal.” I hug her hard as she leaves.
I walk to the break room, check my phone and walk back out to see Jeff sitting in a chair in the waiting area. He stands and hugs me.
“How are you?”
“Fucked up!” I exclaim, still sporting my Texas-sized grin.
“Ok…” he looks uneasy.
“Come on over.” We walk to my station and he sits. I’ve been doing Jeff’s hair since I was 21. We’re complete opposites but have still managed to maintain a friendship all this time.
I begin his scalp massage while feeling his eyes on me.
“So?” he raises an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“What’s up? What’s got you messed up?”
“Oh, you know… Rob died.”
He’s still staring at me.
“Um, I can’t calm down. I haven’t been awful with food but it’s other things I want. I really want to feel close to someone. I miss affection like you wouldn’t believe and I‘m all over the place with that.” I’m not breathing in between sentences. My eyes flood with tears again and I stop moving my hands over his shoulders. I’m trying to speak but if I open my mouth I won’t be able to control my emotion.
“Why don’t you try leaning on God.” he says after a rather pregnant pause.
Yeah. I should. But it’s hard when I can touch my ‘situation‘. He’s tangible. I can look at his face and into his eyes. I can speak to him and hear an immediate response.
We’re silent as he waits for me to say something. I concentrate on my hands resting on his shoulders. I squeeze them, and take a deep breath.
“I know. It’s easier said than done. I don’t know what to do with myself right now. I feel pulled in a million different directions and I don’t know which way to go.”
“What’s got you the most worked up?” he asks.
“Social stuff. I don’t want to be alone by any means but I feel there isn’t enough time in the day or even in the week to squeeze everything and everyone in. Then there’s the things that I want to do, like writing and such, that I’m having a hard time making time for it.”
“You need to think logically. Figure out how to organize things and go at it one task at a time.”
My artistic brain doesn’t do logical.
“Everything will be fine, it’s just insane right now.” I say to him but it’s mostly for my benefit.
“Are you going to be ok to cut my hair?” he asks.
“I knew that was coming!” I laughed.
“I’m just askin’…”
“Yes I can still cut your hair.” I smile and roll my eyes. Ah, this is part of how I’ve become so adept at hiding what‘s really going on in my head at work. Heaven forbid I seem unstable while operating sharp objects. I get him shampooed and start cutting.
“So I’m working on your book and I need you to send me your table of contents.”
“Really?!” I squeal. I asked Jeff a couple of weeks ago if he could help me self publish the book I wrote. I wasn’t sure if it was going to happen or not so this is very welcome news.
“Yeah, or just the order they’re supposed to go in. I’m trying to set up…”
He goes on to explain something I don’t understand and will be sure to have a thousand questions about once he narrows down how he wants to transfer the manuscript onto the self publisher’s format.
“…so just get that to me by Saturday and I’ll be able to work on it while I’m on vacation.”
“You are so awesome.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.” he laughed.
“Yeah but you know so much more than I do and I appreciate you working on this for me.”
I finish up his haircut. It’s after eight I was supposed to meet my sponsor at eight. Dammit.
“There’s no charge.” I take off the cape that was around him.
“No. I told you that you aren’t doing that in exchange for this book thing.” he replied.
“And I said I was! I wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”
“I’m doing it because I want to. Because I want to help you.”
His sweetness is rare and overwhelming in the best way. I’m trying not to cry again. “I’m still not charging you. I didn’t even put you on the book.”
“Ok, but it’s not happening again.”
“Deal.”
When I finish Jeff’s hair I race over to Starbucks to meet my sponsor.
“Sorry I’m late!” I exhale.
“No worries! How are you?”
I shake my head. “Crazy.” I don’t feel the need to cry with her though. I am wide open and know that I could cry if I need to but I don’t. I simply state the events that happened today and the previous weekend. That despite all that madness, I didn’t pick up the food.
“I’m so proud of you!” she exclaims, then offers some tough love, followed with, “One thing I want you to keep in mind. If something screws with your recovery, you need to let it go. Ok? No matter what. Even if it means not hanging out with certain people. You can’t afford to get back into the food.”
I nod.
The conversation moves to her telling me how grateful she is that once she put the food down, she started living a fuller life. Mine is slowly becoming that way and yes, I’m ecstatic. It’s taken so many twists and turns that I’m just trying to hang on at this point, but it does make me very happy to be able to put more energy into creative things.
“Did you know that there are people out there who stare into space and are literally just staring into space?” she pipes up.
“What? Not thinking anything?”
“Nope. Nothing. Can you imagine? I read it somewhere that the majority of people do just that. Stare and not think.”
“Sad for them!” I laugh.
“I know! My mind is going a hundred miles per hour all the time!”
“Me too!”
“I think that’s why a lot of artistic people have issues.”
“I never thought about that!” I laugh.
“Think about it, a lot of artists deal with depression and addiction.”
I think about my industry alone and the heavy drug and alcohol use. I never thought about looping all creative types into that. We both agree that we wouldn’t trade our abilities for anything in the world.
“I narrate my life in my head.” she confesses.
“What?! Me too!!!” I’ve never admitted that to a soul before.
“You too?!” she squeals.
I swear she and I were separated at birth.
“Oh yeah! It’s helped me write!” I laugh.
“I’ve done it forever! Like, since I was little.”
“Me too!”
“Too funny!” she laughs.
I immediately feel better and less weird in her presence. I’ve unleashed all sorts of things on her and she’s heard it all without judgment or an unkind word. As we leave Starbucks another half hour later I feel a million times better.

Pressure...

I write for a couple of hours at Inman Perk and feel quite productive this morning despite the anxiety that is brewing under my skin. It’s Sunday and I want to enjoy my day. I’m meeting a friend for coffee this afternoon. I love her, I do. She’s been an amazing friend, she just likes to push food at me. I haven’t even gotten to the coffee shop yet and already I’m feeling the pressure of having to either eat to quiet her or to constantly protest and say no a thousand times, feeling my resolve melt away and giving in anyway. There are times when I want to scream “You wouldn’t ask an alcoholic to drink right?! Don’t ask me to eat! It‘s the same thing!” I have forgotten what it’s like to have my body tell me I need food. I barely remember what it’s like to be hungry. I’m trying so hard to change this. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s worse, giving in and eating or going against what my addict self wants and saying no, which right now, feels unnatural and uncomfortable.
I don’t deal well with change. I have a hard time admitting that. Even if it’s good change, or something I sparked, I have a hard time with it. That compounded with the pressure I’m anticipating from my friend has me steering my car to Whole Foods where I pick up some grapes. And cookies. I see what I’m doing. I see that it’s not helping the situation, but do it anyways. It’ll quiet my head, if only for a few minutes before the guilt settles in.
All three chocolate chip cookies are gone before I get home. I walk to my room and find some clothes for running. I’m trying not to give anymore attention to what I just ate. One day, I’ll get tired of it. As I pull my shirt over my head I burst into tears. I stand in the middle of my room and cry until the emotion subsides and I finish getting dressed.
I gather up my iPOD and keys and head outside, thinking “What would Rob tell me right now?” I can almost hear is voice. He’d say “You worry too much. You’re beautiful.” As I turn the corner and run down N. Highland I see a shiny white Mercedes with a South Carolina tag on it. My eyes flood again but I swallow the tears and keep going. I make it to Freedom Park and run through that, feeling a heaviness on my shoulders. I think about Rae’s words earlier last week about this whole thing being bigger than me. I’m almost starting to grasp it. It’s this heaviness that comes every now and then, flooding my head. I have a hard time describing it. It’s fleeting and always leaves me in tears. My legs feel like lead as the warm liquid runs down my cheeks. They take over involuntarily though, still moving, one foot in front of the other, letting my head absorb whatever it is that’s making me cry.
I make it home and in the shower a little while later, feeling better. My mind goes back to the food, assuring myself I’m able to simply do what I want. No one is going to tell me when to eat. I get dressed and meet my friend. Instantaneously, it starts.
“All you’re having is coffee? Black coffee?”
“Yup.” It’s decaf also.
“You don’t want a muffin?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?” she continues.
I usually eat a muffin or a cookie when I’m at this particular shop.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to get one. Will you split it with me?”
“Nope.” I reply, although that’s tempting. I remind my self I have enough sugar swimming around in my stomach right now.
“Come on! Not even a cookie?”
Hell no.
I shake my head.
“Melissa! You have to eat something!”
I don’t.
“I ate already.” I’m trying to keep my responses simple.
“Are you afraid of the calories?” she asks.
“No, it’s just that I’m not hungry.” I reply getting tired of this game. She knows I go to OA and why. It’s not about calories or diets or weight. It’s about paying attention to your body, feeling all your emotions without trying to suppress them with food. Or other substances for that matter.
“You don’t have to eat a lot.”
That’s where it starts…
“I have a problem!” I finally remind her.
“I know. It’s not like you have to binge.” she replies.
I don’t binge in front of people. It all happens when I’m completely alone, after whatever it is that I experienced to stress me out. I haven’t gone on one in over six months and I don’t plan on starting now. I don’t say anything.
“It’s almost lunchtime. You need to eat.”
“Not hungry.”
“So you’re just going to wait until you are?” she asks as if this is a new concept.
I nod.
“When is that going to be?”
“I don’t know!” I snap.
The subject is finally dropped and we enjoy the rest of our time together. I still feel antsy though. I can’t sit still. I get tired of questions. It’s all the same. “How are you really?”, “Are you dating?”. “What about Chicago?” I know people ask because they care. I’m happy people care, I’d just like for them to think first. How am I? I don’t have a clue and I’ve been saying that for 8 weeks now. Am I dating? Are you serious?! I can’t handle that. Although…even though the idea of going on an actual date petrifies me right now, I still want sex. I still want that closeness with someone. I don’t want to share words but kisses, not share dinner but skin, no thoughts communicated but the heaviness of another body on mine. I still want to be touched and to physically feel love. I miss affection so much it consumes me at times.
And Chicago? I’m not ruling it out by any means. I’ll be in Atlanta through Christmas and that’s all I got right now. New Years will come and I’ll see how I feel after that. I can only handle so many life changes at one time. I’m done trying to plan and anticipate what’s going to happen with my life. I felt anxiety when I was trying to move before Rob’s accident. I knew something would keep me here despite my best efforts to leave but I didn’t know what it was. It had me acting rabid trying to figure out the “right” way to handle the situation as far as interviews, move dates, money etc. Fuck all that. The whole plan went straight to hell in a single moment. I’m frustrated because it’s like something is keeping me here and I want to spread out and leave but I still feel anchored right where I am but I don’t know why.
I am constantly reminded by my sweet friend that everything will be ok. I know this.
“Is it any better? Anything? Do you feel any better?” she asks.
“Not better, just different.” I reply.
She reminds me one more time that it’s going to be ok. I feel people tell me this because they perceive that I’m not doing well. I am ok. I will get through this but please, please, please, let me have my tears, my erratic moods, my random bouts of happiness and laughing, my days of constant sleeping, or none at all. Let me have my feelings and know that yes, everything is ok

Sixty...

It’s June 20th. Sixty days have gone by since Rob died. It still doesn’t seem real. Still doesn’t seem like that much time has passed. We’re all still going on with life, working, living, whatever.
After work, I join the masses of lunatics on the Atlanta roads, trying to get home. When he was here I’d hurry home, shower and get all sparkled up for him. I’d constantly walk back and forth from my room to the kitchen trying to see if I heard his car door lock or see if I could catch a glimpse of him through the glass of my front door before he knocked.
It’s taken me sixty days to stop waiting for him to show up on my door step. I no longer race back and forth through my apartment, but quietly hibernate through the weekend like I used to before I met Rob. I loathe the insanity that packs itself into every restaurant and bar that lines N. Highland. It was more tolerable when Rob was here but we both weren’t fans of trying to narrow down places to eat without long waits.
One of my clients said to me today, “You have an angel now. Someone needed him for a bigger job somewhere else.”
I hear her, I do and I believe her, it’s just that he was my angel right here next to me when he was alive.
I park in Guatemala and walk to my house. I go for a nice long run and see South Carolina car tags everywhere. I swear it’s him saying hello and making his presence known. I haven’t seen that many in one day since…well…ever.
I’m feelin’ a bit quiet today so I’ll stop here.

Head Case...

Head Case…
For the life of me, I cannot sit still. Yesterday, as far as my food situation goes, was one of the worst days since Rob died. Although I’m proud to say I didn’t go on a binge, I ate too many sugar filled items and felt gross all day. Today, getting back on track after that has been an immense challenge as it usually is after I get crazy with the sugar.
I try to write in my journal this morning but can’t seem to focus. I’m getting behind with that. I take a walk then go to the gym for the first time in nearly eight weeks. Ouch. I should probably start going back a little more often.
After getting ready for work, I head to San Francisco coffee to read for a little while. When I read, although I’m comprehending the words, my mind somehow processes other things. I don’t quite understand it. It’s like being asleep and having a dream to process whatever happened that day, except I’m wide awake. I do this when I run as well but I’m able to actually daydream more and that sparks new ideas and things I may need to explore.
Today’s processing involves why I’m going crazy and what I’m going to do about it. I’ve had losses in my life before. People have broken up with me, and vice versa. Friendships have subsided, jobs have come and gone, but nothing is as profound as death.
I think about the last time someone I felt was quite significant left me, and how I ended up getting through it. It was about three years ago. I met Peter through Kat. He moved to Atlanta in July but hadn’t found a job yet in the city so he stayed in his apartment in Atlanta on the weekends and worked in Birmingham, living with his parents during the week.
That first night he moved he met me and Kat downtown for an outdoor concert. As our favorite band Stereophonics played my favorite song “Dakota”, rain began to pour down on us. I remember walking away from the crowd with him to wait for Kat who had left us to get closer to the stage. We were standing under an awning, completely drenched, when his thumbs met the skin under my eyes, wiping away the wet mascara that had made it’s way off my lashes.
Kat caught up with us and we all went back to our places to get changed into drier clothes. Peter and I were going to meet at a bar while Kat decided to stay in. I remember still being soaked, stumbling around my room with mom, on the phone telling her about Peter and our plans, trying to find something “cute” to wear while she reminded me to be careful and call her the next day.
Peter and I lost our minds. We met up an hour later at the N. Highland Pub and talked until the bar shut down. We got into a wrestling match outside near Freedom Park and then laid out on the concrete talking, while watching the sky lighten up. It was six in the morning when he decided we should sleep. He invited me back to his house in Candler Park where we passed out but only for a few hours. We talked and talked all morning, eventually ate lunch, talked some more, walked around, and then I went home for a shower only to return shortly after for dinner and a movie.
Each weekend was like that. Hours spent connected at the hip wherever we went, never sleeping because there was so much to be said and a feeling that everything was ok when I was with him. He called every day telling me how crazy he was about me and vice versa. He was so excited to have his place in Candler Park, learn about all the different neighborhoods and to spend time together. He told me one afternoon that he was falling in love with me.
Then without warning everything stopped. The phone calls, the trips to Atlanta, everything. Stopped. After several attempts at calling him with no return call, I found out through the grapevine that he moved back to Alabama, but no one knew why. He didn’t return Kat’s or Gordon’s calls either. Completely dropped off the face of the Earth.
I remember being so upset after that. Lots of tears and anger. Chances are good I’ll never see Peter again and I’m ok with that. I will never see Rob again and that’s not ok. Like Peter, my memories of Rob are finite. What’s going to happen to me when I’m done putting all my energy into writing about him? It’ll end at some point and I’m scared of that.
“I’m terrified you’re going to leave me.” I said to Rob while perched on the edge of a couch in a friend’s living room in Chicago. It’s the day of my second interview at Art and Science salon and I’m a nervous wreck.
“I’m not going to leave you, I’m just not optimistic about the long distance thing. We’ll talk about it more when you come back. I’m perfectly willing to go down the yellow brick road with you. Let’s just cross that bridge when we get there. Ok?”
Crossing bridges when I get to them is something I’ve never been able to do. I try to mentally cross them before reaching them to be able to somewhat anticipate what’s on the other side. In doing so I miss the journey to the bridge.
My brain feeds me memories like being spoon-fed ice cream. Of course, like ice cream, I devour them, wanting more, licking the bowl until there’s nothing left. I think about being a child and who I was then. Thoughts of middle and high school come next, then being employed, moving through relationships, traveling, accomplishments, the people I’ve met along the way that have helped shape who I am now. These thoughts and memories always end with Rob and how he opened me up and pulled out what I had been looking for all this time… me.
I have to go to work. I close my book and walk to my car. Once in and driving I change the radio stations looking for something, anything besides constant talking. Rob’s favorite song, “Addicted” by Saving Abel is playing on 96.1. I’ve never heard it on the radio. The music brings me back to the day after he died and I dissolve into tears yet again.
I don’t understand what all these feelings are. I don’t understand why I can’t stop moving, why I dream of taking long walks, and sleeping even longer. I can’t explain what it’s like to want to be completely alone and surrounded by people every minute of every day. I don’t know why some days like today, I long to touch my clients, to feel human skin and give them all my love because I don’t know where to direct it anymore. Then there are other days where the last thing I want is to deal with people. What is this and how do I fix it?

Kisses...

I can’t remember where I was when I heard the tail end of Matt Nathanson’s “Come on Get Higher”, but I knew I was in love with the song. I thought I’d remember to download it, to hear it to it entirety but I forgot. Rob was still alive then and the song made me think of him.
I heard it today, again, the tail end of it and remembered to download it while at Inman Perk. As soon as I could leave, I was back home, transferring the song to my iPOD. I quickly changed into my running clothes and raced outside, pounding the pavement that lined N. Highland. Matt’s voice reverberated in my ears as I approached Freedom Park. The smell of fresh cut grass filled my head and made me smile. The melody, his sweet voice and the lyrics picked me up and took me to delicious memories of Rob’s kisses.
I thought about the first kiss, which happened after our first dinner together as he unlocked the passenger door of his Explorer. For whatever reason I was hanging on to his fourth finger of his right hand shaking it when he turned away from the door and kissed me. The air was clear and the temperature was perfect. The butterflies in my stomach woke up as his tongue pushed into mine. When we stopped, he smiled at me and asked me to get into the car. I could barely move.
I hate to admit the last kiss was, on my end, half hearted as I was angry he was leaving but at the same time, grateful he was standing in front of me in his jeans and blue t-shirt, his red bag thrown over his shoulder. He told me he loved me, I returned the I love you and we kissed.
I loved his mouth. His smile lit me up in a way I’ll never be able to put words to. The first kisses of every weekend, shared as I opened the door and stood before him, held me in a perfect moment as I felt all my stress and madness melt away. My mouth took up residence on his bottom lip, barely letting him get in the door before wanting to devour him. I could swallow him whole.
It makes me crazy to know I won’t get that with him again. I’ll never be wrapped up in his arms, feeling the thick heaviness of his tongue against mine, his hands rubbing my back and sometimes my hair. I’ll never open my eyes and meet his, inches from my face. That wonderful feeling of being loved, taken care of, and safe with him will never flood my chest again.
What’s replaced it is this lovely burning emptiness in my stomach. I’m still not sure what to do with “gone forever.” I keep wanting to share this song with him. I’ve played it over and over through my run. I keep wanting to email him and say “Listen to this when you get a chance. It describes how it feels for me to be in love with you.”
I walk into my house, and get ready for work. I cry the whole way to the salon. Again, the tears come without warning. I find myself still staring at things, lost in thought. I carefully set up my station and as I’m waiting for my client I open up to my co-worker, Rae and tell her that I’m a mess. It’s so hard. I tell her about crying all the way to work for no reason. Nothing sparked it, it just happens.
“It’s bigger than you.” she simply states. Her grandfather died recently. “I still cry and still like to torture myself some more by looking at his pictures while I’m crying. I pull out letters he wrote me and stare at his name.” she shakes her head. “It’s something about seeing his name…”
I think about her words for a moment, turning them over in my head. I do that. I stare at Rob’s name in my phone. I’ve saved some text messages from him and I read the words constantly but I really stare at his name and try to absorb any sort of energy that could still be left of him. I miss seeing his name blinking on my phone when he called. I miss hearing the beep of a new text message and hoping it’s him but knowing it’s not.
While working on my clients I watch my hands move through all the sections of hair. I have to blink back random tears, but I keep my eyes on my hands. It’s like they’re not even mine. My body is here but my brain is so far out in space I don’t know when I’ll see it again. I’m glad my hands know what to do.
I finish work and I’m meeting my sponsor for coffee. I decide I want to pierce the top of my ear. She wanted a new sparkly for her lip piercing so we meet at Kolo in Little Five Points instead of our usual Starbucks.
We’re both chatterboxes until it’s my turn to go back into a small room and perch on this padded table. The woman doing my piercing is Jen. She examines my ear asking if I wear glasses. Damn, I forgot to bring them.
“We’ll work around that.” she tells me, while measuring my ear.
When all this is said and done I’ll have a bar that goes through the top of my right ear. (kind of like an arrow was just shot through it) The first time I saw this piercing was on the guy that was teaching me how to be an assistant at Van Michael. I’ve seen it since and have kept in the back of my head that I wanted one.
“Ok, I’m going to put it here to allow for your glasses and swelling.” Jen said as she finished looking at my ear. I can’t see what she’s talking about but I trust her.
She cleans my ear and marks it with a Sharpie.
“Take a look in that mirror. That placement ok?”
I pick up the hand mirror and look at the black marks on my ear.
“Yup.”
“Ok, lay down on your left side.” she tells me.
I do but not before seeing the needle that is about to meet my ear. Why did I just look at that?
“Ok, this is going to pierce you twice and not going to feel great. Some people say the second one hurts worse but I think it’s just because you know it’s coming. I advise you to close your eyes and take deep breaths.”
Again, I do as I’m told. I feel her fingertips on my ear doing something. I immediately ask when her birthday is to get her talking.
“May second.” I hear her smile. “And you?”
“October eighth.” I giggle.
“Ok, inhale…”
I do.
“Exhale.”
As the air leaves my lungs the needle pushes into my cartilage at the top of my ear. I hear the skin give way under the sharp object. Wasn’t too bad. I open my eyes. Jen’s stomach is in my face.
“Ok, one more. Inhale.”
I do and close my eyes.
“Exhale.”
The needle pushes again. Ow!!! Ok! I’m awake! That shit hurt! My eyes fly open. “Oh yeah, the second time was worse!” I laugh.
“Ok, now I just need to put the bar in.” she’s still smiling.
I close my eyes again, feeling her hands working with the jewelry until she tells me to sit up and take a look in the mirror.
“Perfect!” I squeal examining the new shiny object that has taken up residence in my ear.
“Good! Be good to it. You’re all set.”
“Thank you.” I smile and hop off the table, thinking about her instructions to ‘be good to it’.
My sponsor tells me the same thing as our evening ends a couple of hours later.
This little outing has completely taken me out of my own head and placed me somewhere else entirely. I’m glad. I like being in my head, I do, it’s just that sometimes, I need to get out and get some air. I fall into bed later than I wanted to, thoughts of Rob’s kisses filled my head until there weren’t anymore left.

Crazy...

“What is happening to me?” I think to myself as I suck down my soy latte at Inman Perk still staring at the blank computer screen. I can’t think for shit. I desperately want to write but can’t put all the words together. The thoughts are there but it’s like they’re in another language and I don’t have a translator. I polish off the rest of the latte and shut the computer down.
It’s early but the temperature is already on the rise as I walk to my car. I settle in and drive to see my chiropractor.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the best you’ve ever felt, how are you today?” he asks once we’re in one of the small exam rooms.
“Uh, six?”
“Why six and not eight?” he looks up at me.
This whole grief thing… ya know…
“I’m stressed out and tired.”
He nods and writes something down. “Alright. Hop up, go face down on the table.” he tells me.
I do as I’m told after taking off my glasses, and sink into the adjusting table, closing my eyes. His hands rest on my ankles, checking my legs for balance. He instructs me to turn my head towards the right then the left several times, then begins adjusting my neck and back. When he’s done, I stand, put my glasses on and get my bag.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod. “Yup.” Just to be touched is good enough for me.
I sit in traffic on the way back home. I’m really trying very hard not to lose my mind.
I make it home and change out of my jeans and into a dress. I drop the computer off in the kitchen and climb back into my car to see my therapist, Karen.
“How are you?” she asks, sitting across from me in a recliner. I’m perched on a leather couch. My feet don’t touch the floor.
“I don’t know.” I reply. “I was trying to figure out what I wanted to talk to you about on the way over this morning. I have no idea.”
She nods. I stare at the floor. Again, what the hell is going on? Why can’t I talk?
“I really hate Atlanta right now.” I blurt out. “I hate even saying that. I don’t mean it really, it’s just right now. I hate it. I hate all the judgmental bullshit, the traffic, the heat. I don’t have a lot of good things to say today. I’m sorry.”
She’s quiet.
“My job is a tremendous challenge at the moment.” I continue. “I love doing hair. I can’t say it enough but right now, in this moment it’s a challenge. I don’t mean to complain. I have no room to do so. I feel so blessed to work for Salonred. If I were still at Van Michael, I’d be a depressed, 700 pound asshole, or I‘d be committed somewhere.” Tears start. “I feel so fortunate to have found my current employer and OA. I don’t know where I’d be without both of them.”
“It’s ok to complain here. What is it about your job that’s challenging?” she asks.
“It sucks me dry of energy.” I reply immediately without thinking, wiping my face. “I certainly don’t want to leave the industry but it’s killing me right now. I feel forced to go to work. Bills still need to be paid.”
“You’re right. They do, but Melissa, you don’t owe anyone anything. You don‘t have to talk about Rob with your clients. You don‘t have to be anyone but yourself.”
I nod. “Mom and I had this discussion last night. She said the same thing. I tried to explain to her that it was drilled into my head at Van Michael that we are to cater to every need of the client. Every day is a good day no matter what. You don’t talk about your life to your clients, because they don’t want to know. They have problems of their own. That was the message I received at the beginning of my career. I was fucking nineteen, trying to be perfect, trying to anticipate the needs of the guy I assisted, his clients and management. It only got worse when I was promoted. I see now that if I don’t take care of myself, everything certainly falls apart and I don’t do a good job but I’m just now learning that. I’m trying to find that balance now. I’m stuck in between everything that I was taught and everything I’m just now learning.”
“It’s like you just left a cult and you’re trying to find your way.” she replies.
“That about sums it up.” I laugh. During my time with Karen, I’m all over the place. I change subjects a million times. I tell her about my wanting to make big sparkly necklaces, about how my eating has been good for the most part and I’ve been able to set some boundaries with people I normally cave into when up against.
“Nothing is perfect but I’m trying.” I smile.
“How are you doing over all, with your grief?” she says carefully.
I’m not sure how to answer this. “Um. Well. I’m doing ok, I guess. I mean, I sleep, work, write. I’m not overeating too much, not isolating but there are times when I need to be alone…yeah.” I nod.
“Ok. So you’re not closed off to people, you do see your friends and family but on your terms, correct?”
I nod. Mom’s words from last night creep back into my head. “You don’t ever stop. You’re over here, then over there, and you’re doing this, then that, and you want this but then you want that over there. You never take your time and slow down.” She’s right. I don’t and I don’t know how.
My session with Karen is up and I feel calm. I go to the bank and head back towards my house, thoughts of lunch filling my head. While driving down N. Highland, five minutes from home, a damn tank of a car pulls out in front of me. I slam on my breaks, the contents of my front seat are now on the floor, the front end of my vehicle is inches from the tank’s driver’s door. (by the car’s description I don’t think I have to explain what was driving it.) There are people outside across the street. I scream “SHIT” at the top of my lungs, not caring how absolutely insane I appear right now . Thank the Lord for the best break system Toyota has ever installed on a car before. Those babies saved me countless times, including a recent near death experience on I-20 earlier this week that left my damn teeth chattering I was so scared.
In a flash I yank the steering wheel and turn hard to the left to go around the idiot. I carefully drive the rest of my five minutes home, feeling my arms shake and my legs go numb.
“If I could be anywhere else, besides here, where would I be?” I contemplate as I open my front door. “Sweden.” I toss my keys on the table, just inside the door and run to my room to grab a book. I decide that I really want this turkey and avocado deliciousness of a sandwich at Parish up the street. It means getting back in the car of course. I’d walk if it weren’t 4,000 degrees.
Back in the car, I go to Parish in Inman Park. I order the sandwich and sit outside in the shade and begin to write in my journal. This still feels foreign to me, writing in my journal. It’s the hardest thing in the world right now and I don’t know why. I’ve done it for years. A couple of pages into it, I stop and eat. I probably should’ve waited a little longer after the incident with the tank because I barely tasted anything I inhaled it so quickly.
I drive home and decide to walk up the street to Belly and get some grapefruit juice. Rob loved their orange juice. It’s all fresh squeezed. I love being there but hate being without him. I sit at table trying to crack open the journal again and a cute couple sits down at the counter in front of me in the seats Rob and I usually sat in. Their clothes almost match each other and I smile to myself when she stands to kiss his face before getting some napkins.
Again, I can’t sit still. I close the journal and leave. I walk the long way back home, but instead of turning to go to my street, I stay straight. All the way down St. Charles Ave. I walk, not sure of where I’m going. Huge, warm tears make their way down my face out of the blue. They don’t stop and I don’t try to stop them. I’m sobbing, passing people, walking in a blur until I reach a dead end. Either I go right and go home or go left and go to the bookstore. Left it is.
I’m not looking for anything in particular. I remember my cousin Stacy mentioning her favorite movie was “Reality Bites” the last time I saw her. I’m holding the DVD remembering the conversation. I decide to buy it.
I walk all the way home after that and watch the movie. I liked it. I take a shower and ingest a Tylenol PM to kill the five day old headache I’m still sporting and fall into bed. It’s still light outside.

Saturday again...

I woke up sweaty this morning gripping one of Rob’s shirt so tightly with my left hand that my fingers hurt when I uncurled them from their death grip on the fabric. I wondered what I had been dreaming or if I even was to make me hold on so tightly. Sleeping next to his shirt and not actually having it on made me think of when I was little, sleeping with the comfort of stuffed animals.
When I sat up in bed, I felt disoriented. My head was pounding and my stomach burned. I carefully got dressed and headed to Inman Perk thinking caffeine and breakfast would lift the fog from my mind.
The only thing it lifted though, was my heart rate. I sit in front of the computer staring at the screen, trying to think, trying to write. My mind is completely blank and I’m mad.
“Hey!” a voice pulls me out of my confusion.
I look up and see a black guy I had met weeks before one morning. He’s nice, I just don’t want to talk.
“Hi.” I quickly glance back at my screen.
“You’re here early.” he replies.
Thanks for noticing.
I nod, not interested in small talk.
“Do you get enough sleep?”
For the love of God. What does it matter?
“I do.”
“You didn’t party last night?” he continues.
Do I look like the kind of girl that stays up all night partying?
“No.” Although my swollen face probably insinuates I’ve had too much alcohol.
“What time did you go to bed?”
The room is spinning and I want nothing more than for him to get out of my face.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth, I don’t remember.
The girl behind the counter yells “Skim latte!” and he says goodbye while walking to get his coffee. I’m back to staring at my blank screen.
“Hey Melissa!” I’m pulled out of my staring contest with the screen again, minutes later.
It’s a former co-worker. “Hi.” I smile, hoping it doesn’t look too forced.
She walks over and we chat for a few minutes before she walks away to order coffee. I contemplate leaving before being interrupted again.
I have nothing to say to this computer except that I wish it could think for me. I want it to pull all my thoughts out and have them all typed up and saved for me. Right now everything is a scattered mess and I don’t know how to organize it.
I bought a journal yesterday. I’ve decided to start writing in that again, although I still have a huge gap to fill in my previous journal between April 21 and yesterday. I’m trying to be patient with myself but I want it all done right this minute. I turn the computer off and try to physically write. It feels so good to put pen to paper again. I grip the pen so hard it’s like I’m afraid it’s going to get away from me. I feel like a kid trying to ride a bike for the first time. I almost can’t remember what it was like to write in my own damn journal. This life is different from the life I had before Rob and I don’t know what to do with that transformation just yet.
When I can’t sit still anymore I get up and go home to get ready for work. My head hurts so badly that I take medicine. ‘I can’t call in today. I have to go, sick or not.’ I remind myself while getting dressed.
My clients are all fabulous today and I’m grateful. I suck down water, hoping to put out the fire in my stomach after racing around trying to get my station set up and tickets filled out. Nothing is helping and I’m gonna have to sit with it.
My first client spends most of the appointment complaining about her husband. I want to tell her to be thankful she’s got a husband to complain about but I don’t say a word.
After lunch I start Michelle’s hair. I haven’t seen her since April. She asks about Rob and I tell her everything that’s happened which starts the pounding in my head again.
“I’m so sorry!” she exclaims.
I nod, not wanting to move or speak.
She goes on to tell me about how she lost her best friend ten years ago to a freak medical issue.
“I still cry, even ten years later.” she tells me.
Mentally, I check out after that comment. I don’t want to think about ten years after now. I can barely do today. I’m still cutting her hair, still hearing her words but nothing sinks in or registers. I think about wrapping my arms around Rob’s waist and pressing my cheek to his chest. It’s too hard to linger on that memory as my eyes flood with tears. I blink them back while still cutting. I think about my emotionally unavailable client instead. How I want to talk incessantly to him, until I’m out of breath and words, then curl up in the fucking fetal position in his arms and sleep until this doesn’t hurt anymore.
My work day ends early and I race home as if there’s something to go home to. Again, everything is quiet. I try to write again but I only get a paragraph down. I’m still compulsively drinking water thinking that maybe this glass will calm my stomach, but nothing works.
I take a shower and sit on the couch in front of the T.V. It’s not on, I’m just staring at it trying to get my head straight. My attention shifts to my feet. They’re almost curled up under me. I think about how every time Rob and I were having a “serious” discussion, we’d be on the couch, him looking at me, me looking everywhere but at him, exchanging words until he couldn’t talk anymore because he was falling asleep.
It’s just me this time on the couch and I can’t stand to be awake anymore. I get up and walk to my room, finding my Tylenol PM. I take one and fall into bed.

Right Now...

I need solitary activities. Stuff that involves no one but me and my head. I was online a few days ago when the idea of visiting one of my favorite websites crossed my mind. I hadn’t thought about etsy.com in a long time. It’s a place where people who hand make things, sell their goods. As I was scrolling through the various pages of orgasm inducing creativeness an old idea crossed my mind. I’ve loved charm bracelets and necklaces since I was little. I still have a silver bracelet that my aunt gave me years ago. Many family members have contributed to the loud jingling noise it makes when I wear it.
“Make jewelry.” I think to myself. I have such a strong urge to create things right now, to use my hands. It’s something I’ve thought about off and on for years now. I remember buying a book years ago about beading with some allowance money. I think I was 10. Ideas bounce around in my head. I want bold pieces of randomness placed together to create something loud and obnoxious. It’ll be a tangible version of a scream. It’s the only response I feel I really have left at the moment. I feel trapped and I don’t know the way out. I’ll try this for now. I’ll see if I can find the charms and things needed to replicate what’s in my head. I’m scared of it though. Scared that I’ll invest time, money and energy into it and lose interest. (I have a habit of doing such things…) I guess the only way to find out is to do it. I search the website for “supplies” and make my first (albeit small) purchase.
I head to work shortly after that exhilarating thought and wonder just where the hell it came from. As I was in between clients, I flipped through a Reader’s Digest and came across something that was said during an interview with a man who has pancreatic cancer. He said “Live your childhood dreams.” Hell yeah! I feel pushed in the right direction. This is certainly something I want to do for myself. If other people like it, then awesome, but if not, no worries. It’s not meant to be for anyone else.
My third client of the day, Reg is quite dear to me. Actually, everyone coming in today is and I feel guilty for wanting to be completely alone. He hugs me hard and asks how I am.
“Oh. You know…”
He nods and we walk over to my station. When I begin cutting he says,
“I’m here to listen. Whatever you want to say.”
My eyes flood with tears as if someone turned a knob and opened me up. Someone wants me to talk. He’s not afraid of my emotion. I can say whatever it is I want to say and I’m at a loss for words. I jump all over the place from what’s going on now to what went on when Rob died and various things in the middle. As I’m talking I’m simultaneously remembering the last time I saw Reg. It was the day of my accident, two days before Rob died. I was talking incessantly about how much I loved Rob, about how I couldn’t figure out how to explain this amazing connection we shared knowing Reg felt this way about his wife. I was so excited to be able to tell him “Look! I found it too!” I remember him telling me, before he left that afternoon. “I tell all my daughters to find a gentleman. Not just a gentleman, but a Gentle. Man.” Reg has told me this before and I was so proud to be able to say “I understand and I found him.”
“I wish I had something profound to say to make things better, but I don’t.” he says to me on his way out when I’m done with his haircut.
“I know. It’ll get better. At some point.” I reply.
“It just gets… different.” he says. I hear him and I’ll hold on to his words but I don’t understand just yet.
I don’t think he knows it but in the 4 years I’ve done his hair, he’s always said something profound to me. I always walk away from our 45 minutes together feeling fulfilled in some way. Today it wasn’t what he said, it’s what he allowed me to say.
My next client, Todd is a writer as well and I always enjoy our conversations. We seem to somehow struggle with the same things. The last time I saw him he was telling me that a character in his story was headed down a direction he didn’t anticipate. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. I think it’s interesting how as the author, you have created these characters but as you write, they come to life and have minds of their own.
When Todd sits in my chair he asks how things have been and I decide I’ll tell him about Rob. It’s always a toss up when I see the client I’m about to work on who didn’t know I was even seeing anyone but I feel close enough to Todd somehow to share this part of me.
I tell him everything and move on to telling him about writing my blog and all sorts of things.
He suggests to me that I try writing about the struggle of writing the blog. I’m quite perplexed by the idea.
“Do you keep a journal?” he asks.
“I did. A detailed one until the day he died. My blog has been it for the most part. I’ll fill in the details later.”
“I think it may be helpful to write about the time you have writing about all this.”
“I never thought about that.” I stop cutting to look at him.
“Maybe you two went out and got drunk together. Maybe you want to write about your sexual experiences but don’t really want that published in your blog. Write about your thought process. It doesn’t have to be shared with anyone.”
I’m wide-eyed now taking in this piece of information. I never even thought about that. How am I going to squeeze in more writing? It would be so interesting to do so though because yes, my head is full of stuff I don’t write about. My notebooks are filling up with all sorts of random thoughts, quotes, words, paragraphs, half written blogs, etc… I miss my journal like I miss a long lost best friend. I still carry it with me always but the pages following April 20, 08 are blank. I’m scared of that process too. I have to re-live everything again in the most raw, uncensored way. I’d hate myself for not doing though, for letting it slip into nothing. Looks like I have some work to do.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more cheerful things to talk about.” I tell him as I’m finishing up.
“It’s ok. This is your life right now.”
That it is.

Sensitive...

I’m up early but am having trouble writing so I run instead after a brief stint at Inman Perk with a blank page on my computer screen. It’s so damn hot outside that I’m sweating after ten minutes. I keep going though, enjoying the trip my mind is taking.
After a tiny little judgmental comment that was made to the back of my head yesterday at CVS, I’m still fuming. Maybe it’s because I feel I’m still walking around without skin and everything hurts. Maybe it took me back to an ugly place I’d rather not visit ever again. I don’t understand why people feel the need to say the things they do. What does it do for them? And people want to know why I want to move to Chicago…
My mind shifts to all the amazing people that I’ve met and made friends with here. It’s the only thing that keeps me from running straight to the airport, my sweaty self boarding a non-stop flight to O’Hare and never looking back. “I can’t get so mad that I just leave.” I remind myself. I have to step way from the cliff I’m about to jump off of and sit tight until I’m better prepared. I think too that I need to be proud of who I am. I am not a carbon copy of the typical blonde, southern, sorority girl and there’s not a damn thing wrong with that.
I am though, extra hyper sensitive for reasons that I’ve yet to identify. I’m trying to keep it under control but whatever it is, it’s definitely taking up too much space in my head.
I make it back home, and shower. “I want a haircut.” I think to myself. Hmm. Something different. I decide on something asymmetric, but I don’t text Rio right away. I’m going to run some errands first before I get carried away. My little balanced Libra self usually doesn’t like anything asymmetric.
Three hours later I’m sitting in Rio’s bathroom, sans glasses, staring at his blurry image while he cuts my hair off… on one side.
“You know I’m just making this up as I go right?”
“Uh huh! Doesn’t everybody?” I laugh.
I’ve missed my buddy. When he’s done cutting and drying he’s all smiles.
“EEEK!!! Love it!” I squeal after putting on my glasses.
“Good! Can you do mine?” he grins.
“Of course!” I stand and we switch places. “Wow. It’s been a long time.” I smile, referring to the time that’s passed since I’ve cut Rio’s hair. An image of him sitting in his chair at Van Michael after hours, feeding me pizza while I’m fumbling through coloring his hair makes me smile. We’ve had some fabulous hair adventures.
When I finish we’re both all smiles, and then I realize I have to get moving. I’m going to Rob’s parents to cut Lesley’s and Laura’s hair. I race home and get everything packed up and head out. It’s Lesley that answers the door when I ring the bell.
“Hi!” I hug her while simultaneously trying not to step on Rob’s dog, Jake as he loses his mind from excitement.
“Hey. Come on in.” she smiles.
The three of us walk upstairs and Laura meets us at the top.
“Hey Melissa!” she hugs me.
“Hi!”
We walk into the kitchen where Laura is making mashed potatoes. Rob’s dad is on the phone with their older sister Kate who is living in Montana for the summer. When he hangs up he calls me into the living room. Lesley follows.
“Have a seat.” he tells me.
I sit next to him and Lesley sits across from me.
“You asked me questions about Rob’s death and I didn’t have the answers.” he began, then looked at Lesley. “You may not want to hear this.” She didn’t move. “So I asked if his eyes were open…”
I asked this question weeks ago and he didn’t know the answer. I’m looking at him now, not blinking. It’s as if a barrier has been placed in my head separating it into two halves, so I’m able to her everything that’s being said to me but its unable to sink in just yet.
I nod.
“They were, and I was told the trauma was so great he died instantaneously.”
I nod again.
“I didn’t know. You asked. I had to find out.”
I didn’t say anything. He’s right. I did ask. I don’t understand my endless curiosity but it’s there and I’ll hear what anyone has to say about it no matter how difficult the subject matter is.
He changes the subject and moves on to painting a picture of Rob that isn’t in my eyes, from what I’ve seen and experienced, true. The skin on my chest begins to heat up and I feel it turning red. I know everyone is going through their own difficult time with their own grief. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a child. I want to take away all his hurt and hear everything he has to say no matter what but this time I’m taken aback. I want to correct him but I don’t say a word, just stare wide eyed and try to remember this isn’t my story.
My story is that I was in a relationship with a man who was a complete gentleman. Who didn’t use me for his benefit. Who was curious about me, my life, my thoughts, my opinions. Who wanted to talk to me. Really look me in the face and tell me everything his heart desired then wanted to know everything mine did. He didn’t judge me, criticize me, or put me down. He treated me like a lady.
I’ve been with more people than I care to admit who have used and abused me so to see Rob in this light is impossible because it was something he never did. Not to me, not to anyone else he dated.
“Dad, Melissa is here to cut hair.” Laura called from the kitchen. I still don’t say a word, waiting on instruction, which I believe has been given. I ask Lesley to wet her hair and I set up in the kitchen. I cut both Lesley and Laura before Rob’s mom comes home. When she does, we eat dinner and it’s delicious.
A little while after dinner I’m walking down the driveway with Rob’s mom and we’re talking various things as the sky is lighting up with sporadic bolts of lightening. As we’re saying goodbye she tells me about this part in the movie ‘P.S. I Love You’.
“There’s a part in the movie where Hillary Swank’s character is told ‘Jerry was just a chapter in your life. You are his eternity.’” she tells me.
I can’t see her face but I know she’s crying and I’m about to start as well. We say goodbye and I climb into my car. I cry all the way back to Atlanta. I wanted Rob and me to be each other’s eternity.
When I get home I park my car and think about going up to Limerick to visit Kat who is working tonight. It’s Monday and I expected it not to be too busy. I quickly walk up the hill and down the street to the pub.
“Hi!” she flies out from behind the bar and hugs me.
“Hey!”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I just needed some Kat love.”
I order a half pint of pear cider and we sit together at one of our favorite tables briefly recounting the events of the past few days.
“Hang on. Sorry, I better get back up there.” she looks up at the crowd of people that just walked through the door.
“Kay. I’m going to sit at the bar.” I stand and as I’m about to head for a seat in the middle of the bar between two guys that seems preoccupied Kat’s boyfriend Gordon walks up to me.
“Hi darling!” he hugs me.
“Hi.”
“Coming to see Kat?”
I nod. “I’m about to sit at the bar.”
“Ok. Don’t sit right there though.” he nods to the very spot I was headed. “Sit here on the end with my friend Andy. I’m going home.” he quickly introduces me and Andy then leaves.
I nod. I really don’t feel like company this evening. I don’t want to talk to anyone but Kat right now, and if she’s not going to be available then I just want to hang out with my cider and think. Maybe he won’t talk.
Oh, but he does. I’m having a hard time hearing with the live music going which is making this worse. I don’t want to concentrate on his words. Something is being said about politics (nothing bores me faster) and how he loves it and how he works for so and so and…
My mind wanders to how am I going to suck this drink down without it being obvious that I’m sucking it down.
“So why are you drinking that half pint of cider?”
Because…IT’S WHAT I WANT DAMMIT!
“I don’t drink much.” I reply instead.
“Why?”
Because I have an eating disorder that alcohol aggravates. Because my boyfriend just died and drinking sends me into a depression and could possibly spark alcoholism if I’m not careful. People! Why is it so important that I drink? If I don’t drink, there’s something “wrong” with me. If I do drink, (me personally) I’ll become a lush, be stupid and that’s most unflattering. I know what I can and cannot do with alcohol and I don’t need anyone telling me otherwise.
“I. Just. Don’t.” I calmly reply and inhale another huge sip.
“Oh. So what do you do in your free time?”
I don’t want to answer any more questions, thank you.
“I write, run, read, hang out with friends. Whatever.” Another huge sip is being taken. How long is it going to take for me to finish this bottomless half pint?
“You run?”
I nod. “When my shins and knees allow.”
“So have you done a marathon?”
“No.”
“A half?”
“Nope.”
“The Peachtree?”
(Hell) “No.”
“Oh, so you’re just a casual jogger then.”
I’m about to casually jog my irritated ass right out that damn door.
“No. I’m not. I’m a runner.” my tone is beginning to darken and I feel I’m about to get mean if I don’t leave soon.
He’s staring at me. My eyes are wandering and every time they look at him he’s still staring at me like he’s looking for buried treasure on my face. I down the last of my cider as Kat magically appears.
“Gotta run shug.” I hug her quickly.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t talk much.”
“No worries.” I slide off the chair I was sitting on and practically race out the door.
Inside my house, locked away alone with my thoughts I pull on one of Rob’s shirts and turn out my bedroom light. Once in bed the tears come until I don’t remember being awake anymore.

Sweetness...

It was back to work for me today after my glorious week off. I’m not ready to return of course but then again, after time off, who is? I put on jeans, a sparkly top and heels for the first time in a week and set out to pretend to be happy.
During my first haircut I noticed I was suddenly speeding up through the sections of his hair. I was thinking about Rob and how I’d see him tonight. I couldn’t remember what we were doing though so when I finished my client and checked my phone’s calendar I was gently reminded that I’d be getting dinner and watching a movie with my friend Laura tonight. Rob isn’t here.
“Melissa, you’re next one is here.” Cheyenne’s voice says to the back of my head.
“Thanks.” I say to the phone and place it back on the table.
My next client is Karen. I’ve been doing her hair since the very beginning of my career. I share her with a Van Michael colorist, Jeremiah. When I moved to Salonred she began scheduling her appointments every six weeks with him in the morning on Saturdays, allowing a gap of time for her to drive to Candler Park and then I’d cut her hair. She and I have seen each other through all sorts of ups and downs. She’s a breast cancer survivor. I’ve seen her through many surgeries, man issues, and job issues, child issues. I know so much about her daughter (who is my age) that I feel I’m friends with her by now.
Of course Karen knows her fair share about me too. I’ve disclosed to her all the ups and downs of the crazy people I’ve dated, the traveling I’ve done, moves I’ve made, and other various things.
The last time I was supposed to see her was last Saturday and she cancelled. In six years, she‘s not cancelled on me once. I figured something medically related came up. I was preparing myself to hear whatever she had to say and to tell her about Rob when I walked out of the break room and over to the chair where she was sitting.
“Hi!” I smiled.
“Hey.” her tone wasn’t bright and her color was done. I wondered if she had been to Van Michael already today or last week. Jeremiah knew about Rob.
She stood up and wrapped her arms around me in the most loving embrace I’ve ever received from a client. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion.
“I’m so sorry Melissa. Jeremiah told me.”
I sank into her and cried and cried and cried.
“It’s gonna be ok.” she said into my hair. “It’s all going to be ok.”
I nod. Feeling her tears beginning. When we finally let go we’re both mascara streaked messes, laughing at each other.
“It’s crazy.” I said. “This whole thing.”
“I know. Jeremiah’s really worried about you. He’d like you to call him when you can.”
“I should go up there and see everyone.” I laughed. It’s been almost 2 years since I’ve set foot in the place.
“Definitely. You wouldn’t believe the rumors that have spread. They think that he was with you and bunch of other people, and you were badly hurt. You know how things get blown out of proportion.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know. And no, I wasn’t even there. Rob was alone. Come on back.” We walked to my station and I began her haircut. I explained everything that happened during the week following Rob’s death. The subject slowly changes to details of her life. She did cancel for medical reasons last week but everything is under control.
“I was wondering about you!” I laughed.
“You guys know I don’t cancel! Everything is fine though.”
“Good.” I smile.
When I’m done with her hair and have walked her up front, she hugs me and reminds me to call Jeremiah.
“I’ll see you in six weeks!” she smiles.
“Yes ma’am!”
During my lunch break I delve back into the book I started this weekend. I had to put down the grief books for a while and read something else entirely. One of my favorite authors, Stephanie Klein just published a new book called “Moose. A memoir of fat camp.” I love her style and have been waiting for this book to finally appear on bookshelves.
In this book she’s recounting her time spent as an overweight adolescent and the camp she went to one summer. As she’s leaving her parents, she has the following thoughts on the bus ride to camp. “…at least I was the one leaving, with a summer stretched before me. It always seemed easier to leave than to be left behind. Because when others leave, you’re left with negative spaces, left to focus on what was once there. Your routine is the same while they’re out exploring and experiencing something new. You can’t help but feel abandoned, despite all the rational thoughts in your head. The hardest part is the unknown.”
I read the paragraph over and over again, turning the words over in my head. I thought about all the Mondays I woke up long after Rob had left for work, wanting to close my eyes again because I didn’t like waking up without him next to me. This weird emptiness would hang over me until my phone beeped with a text message from him. The emptiness is infinite now as I wake up day in and day out without him. I think also about him being in Heaven and finding myself almost jealous that he gets to experience something that none of here get to experience just yet. I want to know what he knows. I want to ask him questions. I asked him a lot when he was here but I want more now.
“Melissa, your client is here.” Again Cheyenne’s voice brings me back to the present moment.
“Thanks.” I smile and close my book.
Three clients later, Robert comes in. He’s one of my favorites. He’s got the most gentle demeanor that always immediately puts me at ease no matter how crazy I am or my day has been.
I tell him about Rob and we talk about death and grief and how people handle it. (or don’t) His father died almost two years ago.
“People don’t know what to do with death. They like to brush it under the rug, pretend that it didn’t happen and then act like everything is fine.”
“Exactly!” I exclaim. “I’ve had enough of people trying to distract me from things. I don’t need distractions. I need to get through this on my own time in my own way.”
“I understand.” he nods. “Everybody handles it so differently too.”
“Absolutely.”
I finish his hair and eventually my work day ends. I pack up my station thinking today was amazing but I’m really tired. I walk in the stifling heat to my car and head to Laura’s.
“Hi!” she exclaims and throws her arms around me.
“Hey!”
“How was work?”
“Good.” I smile.
“Good. I’m almost ready, come on back.” she says and I follow her to her bathroom where she begins to dry her hair.”
“Can you talk about Rob or not?” she asks.
“I can talk.”
“You sure? I don’t want to upset you.”
Why are people afraid of tears?
“You won’t upset me!” I laugh and then recount the events of Rob’s death again.
“Wow. I’m just so sorry.”
I nod. “Yeah it’s crazy.” I say that all the freakin’ time. I’m getting on my own nerves with my broken record response, but yeah, it really is crazy. The silence is killing me and I pipe up again. “Are you hungry?”
“Oh yeah!”
We decide on Doc Chey’s in the Virginia Highlands. I’ve been there only once and it was delicious.
“I need to come here more often!” I laugh.
“Isn’t is awesome?” Laura replies, putting her chop sticks down.
She tells me about work and her life and I elaborate more on mine. Although I miss Rob terribly, I’m quite content with my friend. We go back to her house and watch American Gangster. It’s after 1am when I leave. As I drive back down North Highland toward home, the streets are still buzzing with people and I think what would I be doing if Rob were still here? No sense in that I think to myself and fall into bed.

Serenity Now!!!

Serenity now!!!
I did everything I needed to do for the most part yesterday. Why is my head still floating around in outer space? What is it that I want? I am in such a rush. I’m in such a hurry to get all these feelings out. I know I can’t rush this. What’s the hurry, and why do I feel so guilty for not being able to handle all the emotions that come up when writing? There are times where I’m literally smiling as my fingers fly across the keyboard of my laptop, unable to keep up with my brain, remembering some delicious memory of something I shared with Rob. Other times, I cry and then there are times where I’m staring at a blank page with that little blinking cursor waiting for instruction and I have no words. I’m writing about my life. How hard can it be?
I’m about to deliver a little bit of ‘too much information’. I have a serious, homicidal case of PMS for reasons that are unbeknownst to me. It wasn’t always like this. Once a month for a week I turn into a completely different person. My PMSing little self is a spoiled bitch who throws a tantrum every time I don’t give in to what she wants. (especially when it comes to food.) When I try to figure out what it is that she wants she’ll change her mind and want something completely different. I feel like I run circles around myself trying to shut the bitch up but nothing works. That compounded on top of my grief has pushed me into solitary confinement. Aside from thanking the girl behind the counter at the coffee shop, the guy at the bookstore and a brief conversation with my mom I haven’t uttered a single word all day to any other human and I couldn’t be happier.
I tried going for a walk. Twice. It didn’t calm my nerves down. I feel like I’m going to crawl straight out of my skin. Nothing satisfies me, nothing calms me down. I’m grateful to not be at work during all this. I’ve been holed up in my house with my laptop and a good book, alternating between the two for the better part of the day.
Thoughts of ice cream creep into my head. Ben and Jerry’s is within walking distance, but that means walking passed Limerick, our favorite Irish pub where I’m sure to see someone and feel like I need to chat, when really, it’s the last thing I want to do. I decide on Publix and get into my car.
I don’t need no stinkin’ ice cream. It’s not going to solve the world’s problems and yet I find myself driving there anyways, on a serious mission to get a pint and get the hell out. Of course I run into a friend and have to explain my whole Rob situation. The feeling of wanting to jump out my skin escalates with each passing minute. I remind myself that she’s just being sweet and doesn’t know what to say and that’s ok. I just need to go!
We say goodbye and I quickly race over to the ice cream section before anything else happens and grab a pint of mint chocolate chip. “What the hell am I doing?” I think to myself. My pace slows as I walk towards the checkout counter. “Put it back.” I turn around at that moment and walk the pint back to it’s home and walk out of the store feeling quite pleased with myself for not giving in.
I contemplate going for coffee but I still hate people and I’m afraid of any sort of meanness that could erupt out of me at any given time. Today I hate stopping for the 4,000 pedestrians that have plagued North Highland. I hate that every move I make, I seem to be in someone’s way or they’re in mine. I hate hearing the noise that surrounds the city. I hate feeling I have to be social when I don’t want to be, putting on a smile when I don’t want to. I hate the pressure I simply put on myself for making an attempt at getting out and being with people when I know good and well I don’t want to. I hate that I hate people but that’s how it is for a little while and then it goes away and I love everybody again.

Sweetie...

Hey darlin’. It’s been a while since I’ve written you. I’ve been thinking about you. All the time, everyday. That’s a given though, as it was after that first meeting at Starbucks. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I’ve been meaning to write but I feel silly for doing so. It’s not like I’ll be telling you something you don’t already know. Like when I wrote you before, about my feelings concerning my food issues, family issues, or issues with myself. It wasn’t anything you didn’t already know, I just needed to get it out. As always, there you were, reading every word, letting me be, helping me along.
I don’t really know what I want to say, which we know is always how my letters start and then I end up writing you a novel. I had a meeting today at work. Boss lady asked me to read one of my stories I wrote from my book. I chose “The Idiots Guide to Getting’ Ya Hair Did”. I’ve never read anything out loud like that before and it felt good she wanted me to do that. So many positive things were said this morning that I found myself wanting to text you to tell you about it. I feel physical pain when I’m suddenly reminded that I can text you all day but my phone won’t light up with your response.
Since I saw you last, I’ve managed to get closer to my family, see things in a different light and open up more to people in general. I’ve slowed down, stopped making so many damn life plans and have managed for the most part to be truly present in whatever situation I find myself in. I’ve kept a rather detailed blog about what my life is like now without you here. The outpouring of love that I’ve received from friends and your family has been one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had. I’ve been able to share a darker side of myself and people love me anyway, which has helped me grow in such a way that I’ll never be able to describe.
Writing has become first and foremost in my life. It comes before anything else right now. I’ve taken time off from work and I camp out in some pretty awesome coffee shops and write for hours. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. I’m not sure if I ever told you that. I still have trouble with patience. I want it all right now. I want everything to be perfect and completed right this second. I get mad at myself when I can’t find the words I need. I forget that writing is a process and sometimes I have to stop, walk away and leave it alone for a moment.
I called the salon in Chicago yesterday. Cindy, the manager, called me today. I had trouble speaking. It took me a moment to catch my breath and say through fresh tears that you died and I’m staying in Atlanta for the time being. After her sweet condolences she said to call her when I wanted to move. I promised her I would stay in touch and that I’d re-evaluate the situation after New Year’s. Today, I keep replaying my last trip up there over and over again. When I was there, I wished so much that you were with me, seeing everything I was looking at. I wanted you to be just as caught up in the city as I was. I also wanted to wrap my arms around you and squeeze you hard when I got the job. Thank you again for being so supportive, never pushing me to stay in Atlanta, never trying to talk me out of anything, but pushing me to go after what I wanted. I am forever grateful.
Something else I wanted to share with you… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being in such a bad mood that morning on the day you died. I don’t know what it was that possessed me to not lighten up. Maybe it was God’s way of getting me detach just a teeny bit because He knew what was coming. We addressed everything that needed to be addressed that morning. Apologies were made, love was given but I still couldn’t shake my anger. I wanted you to slow down, and touch me, hold me, and simply be with me. You were so worried about getting to Robby’s. You always were and I didn’t understand it when to my knowledge he didn’t give you any sort of schedule to adhere to and I felt you didn’t have that sense of urgency when it came to returning to Atlanta. I wanted your attention so badly and maybe you felt you were giving it but I felt you were distracted. I wanted you to stop a moment and kiss me like it was the last day of your life, because… it was.
I still love you so much I’ll never be able to put words to it. Promise me that even though I can’t touch or see you, you’ll always be here. Please don’t ever go. I love you. The most.
Love
Your Bug

Taking Care...

I'm laying face down on Marian's massage table as her hands are working on my back. I feel the crunchy stuff on the right side of my spine move under my skin.
"Melissa, you're really tight. What's going on?"
"I don't know." I lie.
"Have you told the salon in Chicago about Rob?"
"I haven't." I replied.
"You really need to do that!" she exclaims. "Just tell them and let it go. Your muscles are out of control right now."
"You're right." I agree, but I don't know if I'm ready. When will I be ready?
When she's finished an hour and a half later she tells me to stretch often and deal with whatever is going on right now.
"Don't put it off anymore."
I nod, thank her and leave.
I end up staying awake way too late and waking up way too early. After breakfast I'm set to get some writing done at Inman Perk. As I'm in the middle of swimming through a sea of words, thoughts and memories my computer shuts off without warning. I feel rage bubbling under the surface of my skin and I try to remain calm. It's done this before. Carefully, I pack it up and go home, change clothes and go for a run. I'll deal with it later.
While running, Marian's words from yesterday are still haunting me. I am angry and not enjoying my run at all. So much in fact that I just stop and walk, trying to figure out where this anger is coming from. I've put so many things off. For starters, I really do need to call Chicago and tell them what's happened. I have a stack of cards that need to be mailed, bills that need to be paid, plus countless of other things that I simply want to do, but have not made time for. The one thing that weighs heaviest on my mine is the hardest to write about, which we all know is precisely the subject I need to unleash. So here we go…
Food is slowly finding it's way back into my life in the most unhealthy way. I'm using it to deal with a larger issue which I'm using to deal with the largest issue which is my grief. This larger issue is that I see myself looking hard for male attention in some very wrong areas of my life. I want it to fill this huge gaping hole that is left by the absence of Rob as quickly as possible so I don't have to face this loss. The hands that have rested on mine are not Rob's, the eyes I'm looking into do not reflect his love, the skin beneath my fingers is not his. I feel I'm standing on the edge of this enormous cliff. My skin is on fire and eating me alive. If I jump off the cliff I'll land in cool refreshing water and be relieved for a moment, but the water's too cold and eventually, if I don't get out, I'll freeze to death. I see how this will end and slowly I back away, further and further from the edge feeling the heat from my skin leave and I have to find another way down from the cliff. This angers my 'addict' self and it's like I have two little angels sitting on each shoulder. One telling me to end this situation because it's not good for me and one telling me to 'go on…just a little further. You can handle it." I can't though and each time I give in, I get further sucked in until I'm completely isolated from people and doing anything and everything for a 'fix'. I finally turn away from the insistent voice that keeps telling me what I want to hear but it's all a lie.
I keep walking, filled with a sense of purpose. Saying no is the hardest part for me. I can see the other side of this fence though. If I let this obsession for physical affection go and trust that one day I'll get it back with an emotionally available person, I'll feel better. I'll be able to get a better grip on myself. I'm scared though, scared that there will be nothing to lean on if I let this situation go, nothing there to catch me when I'm drowning in my grief but I'm reminded that God is there. If I can just trust that, I won't be left alone. I'll be able to handle anything.
'Ok.' I think to myself. 'When I get home I have to deal with the cards I want to send, then the bills. After that, I need to call Chicago, and after that I have to deal with the 'situation'. The anger that was taking over is now gone. The obsession with food I felt this morning upon waking up has practically fallen away and it's simply because I'm making a decision to take care of myself. If I can just love myself enough I won't need any external 'void fillers'. I feel a million times better by just mapping out a plan and sticking to it. I walk through my front door and immediately tackle the cards. I had everything I needed right in front of me and let it sit for weeks. I see this isn't a good approach and yet I procrastinate anyway. When that's done I prepare to deposit my paycheck and head to the bank. It takes all of five minutes. Again, why do I wait?
As I'm driving down Spring street I realize that the next step is Chicago. It feels as if an anvil is dangling from my heart as I reach for my phone. My head is swimming back to that day in early April when I got the job. Rob was telling me before my interview to calm down, enjoy the process and they'll hire me on the spot.
"You worry too much." I hear his words through the phone.
"I know. I can't help it."
"You're going to do great. Lemme know how it goes."
After we hang up I race to the train station and get to the salon. This is my second interview with Art and Science and I have to demonstrate a couple of blow dry techniques plus interview with what I thought were two other managers. When I get there, I see it's eleven managers/educators, all firing questions at me. I'm at ease though, remembering Rob's words and enjoying the process. It's the most animated I've ever been at an interview.
I finish my demos and as I was packing up I was offered the job on the spot.
"We want you to start tomorrow!" Cindy, the manager exclaimed.
I am filling with such happiness that they want me and I want them that I can hardly speak. We decide that I'll call her later in the week for a start date. I leave the salon feeling elated. I hang on to this feeling while riding the train to the airport. I don't call or text anyone right away. As I'm changing trains I start texting.
To Rob I type in all caps "I GOT THE JOB!!!"
His response is immediate. "I told you they would hire you on the spot! Congratulations! Now c'mere so we can properly celebrate!"
I still have that text message saved on my phone. Making this call while driving probably isn't the best idea but I'm desperate all of the sudden to have it completed. I scroll down my list on contacts and stop at 'ArtandScience'. I press the green 'call' button and listen to the monotone ring on the other end until a voice picks up.
"Thank you for calling Art and Science Salon. This is Molly, how may I assist you?" the chipper voice floats through my ears.
"Hi Molly, is Cindy available?"
"She's not in yet, may I take a message?"
"Sure. Please tell her this is Melissa Nipper and to call me when she gets a chance." I exhale.
She takes my number and we hang up. I place the phone down on the seat next to me and exhale. I did it. Now I just have to wait. Next step, address the 'situation'. I decide to save that one though for later.
Kat and I go to see Sex and the City. We sat in front of a giggly dramatic group of woman who wanted to sing along with every song that would play.
"I'm glad my hetero-life mate doesn't make her own soundtrack to movies." I laugh to Kat as we walk out of the theater.
"You wouldn't want me to anyways." she laughs.
We eat lunch then get our nails and toes done. I was in desperate need. The last time they were done was the day of Rob's viewing. It was so good to be able to spend time with her. We didn't talk much but knowing she's right there was enough for me.
At home I get my computer, pray it operates and head to Aurora coffee down the street. I press the blue button to turn it on and fires up right away. Yay! I write my 'situation' and explain how I have to stop the madness. He writes back immediately and apologizes. I write back and say "No need for all that, I was making decisions I shouldn't be making." He writes back asking if everything is ok now. "It is."
A huge wave of relief washes over me and I feel quite proud of myself. As fun as it is to give in to whatever my little heart desires at the moment it doesn't always result in feeling stellar when it's all said and done.
It's late when I finally get home. I think about staying up a little while longer to read but my eyes are heavy. I give in to sleep.

D.C....

D.C….
“So close. And yet… so far away.” My dad laughed as he gestured to the row of seats in front of us.
We’re sitting on a Boeing 737 with “non stop service to Washington D.C.” as was told to us by a rather chipper flight attendant, just one row behind first class. It’s 7:15am on Saturday. I’ve been awake since 4:30am, soy latte in hand, trying to remember my name.
I erupt into laughter. “I don’t think we’ll ever fly first class on a domestic flight again.”
“Nope. Not with all the frequent flyer upgrades.” he replied. Dad has worked for Delta Air Lines almost 34 years. We’ve had all sorts of adventures with flying. It’s getting harder nowadays with full flights and upgrades to even get on the plane never mind first class.
“International is still good though.” I point out.
“Yeah, that’s usually a given.”
“That’s all that matters! I’ll sit in the back of the bus on domestic flights if it means being up front to jump the pond!”
He and I sit in a comfortable silence all the way to D.C. I stare out the window for a little while and think about what would I be doing if Rob were still here. We’d probably be on our way to Charleston, singing something retarded or laughing at something silly, holding hands.
“What do you want to do first?” Daddy asks bringing me back to reality when we’re about to land.
“Being that it’s going to rain sometime today, let’s go to Arlington Cemetery first.” I reply.
“Ok.”
We land smoothly and quickly exit. The sun is out for now. After figuring out the Metro ticket machines we’re off.
“This way daddy!” I call out to him while he looks at a map. He follows me up the escalator an onto an arriving train.
When we exit we walk around until finding the entrance to the cemetery. I want to see it, I do but I’m feeling a little squeamish about death at the moment.
“I was twelve the last time I was here.” Dad pipes up. “I was here on a school trip and fell on some cement benches in this open amphitheater.”
“What?!” I exclaim. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, I have this scar right here.” he pointed to his left eyebrow. “I was lucky I didn’t hit my eye. I had to get stitches.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“I was acting crazy. Instead of walking down the aisles correctly, I was walking down the benches and slipped and fell.”
I’m trying to imagine my very reserved father “acting crazy” and I can’t help but laugh.
“I had blood all over the place. My teacher almost passed out!“ he laughed. “They took me to this place people aren‘t supposed to go. I think it‘s where the guards are able to change clothes or something.”
“That‘s out of control! Let’s go back to you acting crazy. Define that please.” I giggle.
“You know. I was just being a kid.”
“No, I don’t know about that.” I laugh and hug him.
We walk up to see Kennedy’s grave which is interesting. Dad tells me the President’s assassination happened shortly after that trip he took.
We walk a little while longer to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We approach as the changing of the guard is happening. I am fascinated. These guys are out there in full uniform, no matter what, guarding this grave site. When that is finished we walk back to the train and head to the Natural History Museum. Again I’m am fascinated with all things science oriented. We walk through huge mammal exhibits, gem stone exhibits and planet exhibits. Neither of us say much, just reading and observing, avoiding random kids running around.
We’re both starving by the time we’re finished and stop at the café downstairs for lunch.
“Where to now?” he asks finishing up a cookie.
“Hmm. Well, I’d like to see the Holocaust Museum but we may not have time. Plus if it’s going to start raining we may need to head to the airport.”
“It’ll be fine. Where’s the Holocaust Museum?” he asks.
‘Of course it’ll be fine.’ I think to myself. ‘I’m with him.’
I pull out my map and we figure out where to go and we’re off again, walking down Constitution Ave then down 14th until we find the museum. It’s huge and packed as we open the huge glass doors that line the front of the building. We make our way through metal detectors and into a huge atrium where people are swarming and children are screaming.
“Popular place.” Dad observes.
“Uh huh.” I agree. I hate crowds and immediately want to walk out the door and save this place for another time.
“Let’s go over there.” Dad pointed to what looked like a room. It was a well put together exhibit of this one child who survived the concentration camps. After walking through it we notice the rain has started. It’s coming down in sideways sheets.
“I’ll bet this delays some flights.” Dad says while looking out a window.
“Oh yeah.” We look at each other and laugh.
We walk up a huge staircase and enter another huge atrium with candles lit. It’s silent and beautiful.
“I think we need to come back on a random Wednesday in January, not on a Saturday after school has let out for the summer.” I smile at my dad.
“Yeah…”
After a little more wandering through chaos the rain stops and we head out for the airport. While on the train it starts up again. When we get to the airport we decide to try for an earlier flight. It’s almost 3:00pm.
“Ok, the 2:55 flight is delayed until 5:00. Let’s see how that one looks.” Dad says as we make our way to the gate.
Of course it’s full.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Let’s just try and list on this one and if we don’t make it, then they’ll roll us over to the next one.” he replies.
I nod and we stand in line at the gate behind a Puerto Rican woman who is standing behind a Chinese couple who are talking to the gate agent trying to change something. Off to the right of them is a 177 year old woman in a wheel chair. Dad and I both observe what’s going on at the counter, unable to hear anything. Fifteen minutes go by.
“What in the world is going on up there?” he asks me.
“No idea.” We continue to wait. My mind begins to wander. I haven’t really thought too much about Rob today and I feel a slight twinge of guilt. I haven’t been in a bad mood either despite my serious lack of sleep and the fact all these flights are delayed as well.
“We’ve been standing here for thirty minutes.” Dad’s voice rings in my ear.
“Lord. What the hell?” I mumble.
“If it’s that big of a deal take ‘em somewhere else!” he exclaims to me.
“The plane is going to take off before we even get up there.” I giggle and we continue to stand.
I dial Rob’s number and he picks up on the third ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey darlin’. How are you?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Ugh. Crazy. I think I might be spending the night at O’Hare tonight.” I reply, dropping my bag on the floor at my feet.
“Really.” his tone is calm.
“Flights are all full and delayed. Weather in Atlanta fucked everything up. Story of my life. I think I’m going to try Cincinnati and then go to Atlanta from there.”
“You can do that?”
“Uh huh. Push comes to horrible shove, if I get stuck in Chicago and the first flight to Atlanta in the morning looks bad, could you pick me up if I can make it to Greenville?”
“Sure. I mean, I was planning on sleeping in tomorrow but I could come get you.”
“Well hopefully that won’t happen. Hopefully a miracle will happen and I’ll fly home from here tonight. I just don’t know when…”
“What could possibly be the problem up there?!” Dad exclaims to me as I watch the 177 year old woman begin to stand from her wheel chair. The Chinese couple are still at the counter. It’s been forty five minutes.
“Look daddy.” I gesture over to the antique leaving her chair. “We’ve been waiting in this line so long that the 177 year old woman in the wheel chair is able to stand now!”
We both start laughing. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.” It’s his turn to gesture to the counter at the Chinese couple.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before!” I nod in the other direction to a woman corn-rowing some dude’s hair.
“Oh, she’s been working on that. You should have seen it earlier. It was all standing out everywhere.” he replied.
“Amazing…” we start laughing again.
Just then the Chinese couple leaves and the Puerto Rican woman who is now flanked by what looks like her mother and sister approach the counter. I’d like to clap for Chinese couple finally getting their issue done and over with but I don’t have the energy.
It looks like another issue is about to arise as I watch the exasperated gate agent try to explain in clear English, mind you, that the delay is weather related and if they miss their flight from Atlanta to Puerto Rico they will have to foot their own hotel bill.
“Either you stay here in D.C. and we book you on a flight tomorrow or you take a chance in Atlanta.” the agent stated.
“Daddy, let’s just board. Screw all this.” I giggle, then see that the woman decided to take a chance at their connection and board. Finally it’s our turn.
“Are you accepting any more stand by passengers?” Dad asks the gate agent.
“No sir, this flight is full.” she replies.
We just stood in line for almost an hour to hear they won’t even list us. Awesome. Plan B.
“Ok, now what?” I ask.
“Let’s go see about the next flight.”
The next one leaves at 6pm. We list on that one and sit. It’s now 4pm. I crack open a book and dad closes his eyes.
“Hey.” he says after a few minutes. “The priority is wrong on the boarding passes. I’m going to go change it.”
“Ok.” I nod.
Thirty minutes go by. No sign of my dad anywhere. The man I’m sitting next to has apparently had too much caffeine. He won’t sit still and his constant movements are registering on the damn Richter Scale. Another fifteen minutes go by with no daddy. My mind takes me back to a story a client told me earlier this week about her daughter’s roommate. My client’s daughter lives in London and received a call from her roommate that she was at Gatwick airport picking her mom up when suddenly her mother dropped dead of a massive heart attack. I had promised myself I wouldn’t freak out with thinking about other people in my life dying after Rob but here I am, about to have a panic attack because my father hasn’t returned. ‘He has our boarding passes.’ I think to myself. ‘…and if something happened I would know about it by now.’
The dude next to me makes another move that registered a nine on the Richter Scale and sent me over the edge. I jumped up, grabbed my purse and set out to find my dad. I wander from gate to gate, restaurant to souvenir store with nothing. He doesn’t have his phone with him and I find myself standing in the middle of the huge corridor that lines and separates the gates from the shops staring at the various people walking by when something at Gate 15 catches my eye. It’s the back of my dad’s head. He’s back at the gate we started at, standing in line.
“Are you serious?!” I squeal, rushing up to him.
He starts laughing. “Back where I started.”
“Why?!” I continue to squeal.
“This flight has more seats on it and is a Delta flight. The other one we were listed on was a Delta carrier. It was smaller and everyone flies on a different priority. They both are taking off at 7.”
“How does that happen?” I ask feeling my panic dissipate.
“It’s not supposed to but they’re both so delayed that that’s what they’ve got to do.”
I nod and we wait.
“Rob!” I squeal into the phone. “I’m getting on this flight!” I’ve been delayed at O’Hare for six hours.
“That’s awesome!”
“Yay! I’m so excited! I called work to tell them I won‘t be in. I‘m going to sleep for as long as possible.”
“I’m proud of you for doing that. You need to sleep.” I hear him smile on the other end. “I’m going to do laundry in the morning then head down. I can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you either.” I grin.
“Ok, I’m going to bed. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Passenger Nipper?” the gate agent pipes up and we approach the counter after getting re-listed and waiting another hour to board. “You can board.” she nods to the open door. Our boarding passes are scanned and we receive little slips of paper with the seat number printed on them. It’s like the airplane lottery. You never know where you’re going to sit. We both look at our seat numbers then at each other as we walk down the narrow passageway that leads to the open door of the aircraft.
“Where are you?” dad asks.
“Two D.” I giggle. “You?”
“Two C. I can’t believe we made it to First Class.”
“Me either!”
We settle into our seats and watch the flight attendants buzz around and get things organized.
“Excuse me sir?” a flaming gay male attendant calls out to a man standing in the aisle a couple of rows behind us. “What’s the hold up?”
“We’re changing seats.” the man replied.
“Ok, let’s hurry it up sir.”
No response. Seconds later the attendant’s voice radiates from the speaker.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please move as quickly as possible. There are connections to be made in Atlanta and the faster you move, the faster we take off. You can sit next to your best buddy just as soon as we take off, but please, for now please take your assigned seats.”
Dad and I look at each other and laugh. Another female attendant goes flying by us to the front of the plane.
“I need soda!” she exclaims to the other attendants. “Hurry! Where is it?”
“What’s problem?” Attendant A asks.
“This passenger back there says he wants soda and he wants it now and to hurry it up!” Attendant B exhales pouring sparking liquid into a glass and racing back to the needy passenger. The peanut gallery up front gathers to watch their co-worker hand over the soda.
Attendant A pipes up. “Hurry it up? I’d be taking my dear sweet time. I saw him board and I knew he’d be a problem. I knew it.”
Again, dad and I look at each other and laugh.
“Everybody’s nerves are shot.” he says quietly to me.
I nod. Finally everything gets settled and just as we’re about to leave the gate the Captain comes on and explains that we can’t leave just yet. Air traffic control says no one is to leave the airport. Huh? No one understands. We’re camped out on the ground another hour before we finally push back and take off. I close my eyes for a little while then feel something moving around my feet. I open my eyes to see dad reaching for my camera in my purse. I watch him take pictures out of the window at the clouds. They’re pink with a huge gray one hovering over. The pink ones are shaped almost like a city skyline. Peering out at these clouds makes me think of Heaven and I wonder what Rob’s doing. I close my eyes again and sleep the rest of the way back to Atlanta.