Some Eternity that was. Some Hell, huh?
What I wouldn't give for some fucking punctuation in my life! To emerge from the last week as if waking up. Like "Now you can stop freaking out, it's going to be okay." I want some assurance. And I want that assurance to be: feeling good. I keep waiting. My cold is gone. My stomach is more or less better. I'm still pretty miserable, but I think this might be a chemical truth of me. My 'me'-ness involves some misery. Dig. I just want to go to bed and ride it out. It's almost done. (I guess this without knowing it).
I feel as if I have been built wrong. Like I am missing arms, internal organs. Some intrinsic mechanism of understanding, that software that comes bundled with every other human being I know, I seem to lack. The software I'm talking about is the ability to deal with anything. I don't have that. This is why the Octopus has been kind of totemic to me. (You might not know this about me, so I will tell you. Themes of my teenage years: Octopuses and Zombies, chosen for what I perceived to be their extraordinary resilience).
My room mate Jenny is moving out. We moved into our apartment, the only place I've ever lived in NYC, three years ago (Summer of 2005). Her cats, Quinn and Ilya, are a major part of my life, both blessing (Quinn) and curse (Ilya). She owns nearly everything in our house, has been the sort of House Mom, doing all the renovations. I sleep on a bed loaned from her. Although we hang out outside of our house only sometimes, living with her has been a pretty central part of my life. We have witnessed each other's ups and downs over the last few years and she has been, whether she knows it or not, My Family in New York. And while I understand her reasons for wanting to move on, I am pretty heartbroken.
I don't know what to do about anything.