the cope-a-cabana

Tuesday, December 10, 1996
9:30am, train

Why is this guy going to be touchy about me seeing his newspaper? I’m obviously engaged in something much touchier.

So I made up with Harriet. Was in a foul terrible mood most of yesterday where I just couldn’t stop being candid about my frustration. It would be great to assess my boss’ priorities the way we did our department’s. Crying last night because everything seemed unfamiliar. Everything seemed so without solidity, or meaning, I felt so alone.

Smoked a quarter joint this morning. Shit, I mean, okay. Not too high. Still proud of myself though I’m still smoking everyday. Proud for smoking so much less  but can I keep it up like this?

Well, hello Judith. I will see you today at one. Finding it hard to balance my weight. God, it’s always the same metaphors. It’s getting old, especially at work. And as I said to Harriet, I’m blowing everyone off.

I don’t think I’m a bad person. Who am I defending myself to? Do I need to be in a relationship with Harriet and/or Frank to satisfy that old fucked up section of myself? Wouldn’t I feel better without all that? Spent hours yesterday after work nursing Hil of her mal-du-couer. It’s bullshit. It makes me angry, annoyed, and depressed.

Ran into Bob Holman at Biblios and felt totally in control of myself, very poised. Nights at work, it gets so flaky and weird. Mat and Calder are building an igloo out of styrofoam.

The dumb high is settling on me like a fucking fog. It’s proof how dumb and stupid and fucked smoking makes me feel, I can’t even come up with something better than fog. And I’ve been clearing my throat for the past three years. So, well, everything’s swell, especially my tongue in my face. Are you high, asked Frank on Friday night. I wasn’t. Why not?

No, nothing’s changed, except the location of the pain. How poetic. Oh, don’t trip me up for a change; it’s so lonely.

I want sex. I wish I was home alone. I wish I had my thumb. Had a tough time yesterday feeling like, oh, God, why don’t I block off all sources of comfort? But Judith is right, smoking makes me more depressed, anxious, and unclear as to what’s real and what’s fantastic.

Saw the Brother Theodore show Saturday night with the work crew and afterwards Frank pulled the quick “see you, bye,” and I felt dissed. Weird, pissed at him. Then I got home and there was a message saying sorry. He wanted to say a real goodbye, but it’s just too weird with everyone there. But I understood, and I said, thanks for the message. I felt weird.

So I went back to his place and had bad sex, where I felt angry and struggling with him, not loving and together. Then we both fell asleep and I woke up at 1:30 and split. I guess I need to talk to him tonight about what we’re doing or not doing. Maybe part of what made me so frustrated with work, made me feel like quitting last week, was wanting to quit things with Frank and not knowing any other way.

Blah blah blah. The wooing was better than the winning.  I only want to make love if it’s love, if I feel loved, valued and secure.  Makes me want to go back and be with Ted.  Thinking how nice it would be to have a few days away from the situation with Frank. We see each other every day, OH GOD.

Oh, a few more months, a year and I’ll be super kicking ass. The optimism is returning, therapy helps. Yes, I used to feel and act awfully, but now what? Now what? Now what? Does writing even help? I’ve asked over and over; I don’t know much anymore.

Thursday, December 12, 1996
10am, train

Thursday trepidation.  Realized it’s no use in getting high and then writing down the slurry of imagined circumstance that it kicks up. I know it’s not helping. It’s not helping, it hurts and I’m afraid of giving it up. But why? It’s like cocaine. It’s coming to the point where I don’t want it anymore, it’s not my friend, it’s my enemy. It makes me more afraid and less able to cope.

Well, today I did it to myself.  I booked way too much stuff but I can learn from this and I’ll be okay.  If anyone gives me shit, I will calmly reject it.  I can’t wait to get home tonight to my one joint which will make me feel worse.

Went to Frank’s last night after work. He prepared a lovely dinner with candles, champagne, and we spent the night kissing and singing songs. I was very touched and happy, a close, hilarious, sexy, happy time.

I just need him to keep acting this way towards me. I need consistency. Can we possibly live up to the high expectations we’re setting for ourselves? Spent hours lying in bed trading thoughtful declaratives: I’m really happy right now. It feels really good to be with you.

I’m stupid high, so impassive, oh I’m in love with him!  Nothing is real, nothing has been for years.  I’ve been deluding and diluting myself for years.  Gotta get clever right away. Have the idea distinctly: I have to find another lover, someone to love ASAP.  I feel lonely and in need of love, seriously.  Especially in this time of…?

Yeah, I can cope.  I’m the Cope-a-Cabana.  I’m the ‘me,’ remember?  Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.