Tag Archives: day-to-day

Kick Some Assembly

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Last week, I got a text from Sophia telling me where we’d meet for the protest, but not when. The day of the protest, she texted me a time and a list of things I should leave behind (phone, Apple watches) and bring (sunglasses, mask). I would leave my wallet behind too, taking only my four-hundred-dollar SmartCard and praying to the Almighty Bob that I wouldn’t lose it.

Later that morning, Sophia texted that we were going to a different protest just over the Maryland border, at a different time. I somehow made the twelve-minute walk to the Metro without music and I caught my train pretty quickly. I arrived on time and waited for her to show up.

This took some time. My only means of telling time was the Amtrak departures/arrivals billboard. It occurred to me that she could have been running behind or canceling the trip altogether, and there was no way she could tell me. I watched the board for a while, deciding when I’d give up, then moving the goalposts.

She made it, apologetic, and I didn’t care because she was always late. The train line we took was the one we used to take when we lived closer to each other, so we traded memories. Even without the protest, this was a really good day.

We met up with Chuck at our stop, and he was carrying a standard-sized American flag and collapsible pole. I brought a five-pack of art boards and acrylic pens, so Sophia and I could get our sign on. I’m not satisfied with how mine turned out. You’ll see why that’s so funny in a bit.

Sophia went Minimalist, but profound.

I went with something that needed to be said.

An old man with a walker asked if we’d make him a sign, and I said of course. Sophia wrote a poignant saying, with green paint this time, and this made him really happy. His name was Neil, and we saw him later in the afternoon when he passed us by. He was excited to show us how he’d taped it to his walker.

We masked up and left the station. Sophia and Chuck had some very real concerns about surveillance and the vindictiveness of the Trump administration. Honestly, I went into this expecting to get arrested. I informed my boss I’d be at a weekend protest, just in case. But there were no heavily armored police with batons and shields. There were no police at all. It was five blocks of people standing on each side of the Wisconsin Avenue, waving signs around.

Chuck and Sophia looked like they were going to lob Molotov cocktails at passing cars. I started out masked as well, but between the pleasantly warm humidity and the fact that not a single other person at this entire protest was wearing one, I let my face breathe. They were off in my own little world, and I decided to explore.

Luckily, there were people in orange vests keeping part of the sidewalk open, so I was able to walk the length of it without throwing elbows. The ubiquitous honk took some getting used to, but it was clear that most people in the metro area are on our side.

I realized that, if I got lost in this crowd, there was no way Sophia could find me, so I found my way back, and I couldn’t see them anywhere. I took advantage of the ample seating and attempted to think my way out of this—oh, there they were, exactly where I’d left them. They didn’t even know I was gone.

This was a social event for many of the protestors, who shuffled themselves corner to corner, gossiping like schoolgirls. That meant they passed back and forth between us and the rest of them, giving us a chance to read all the signs.

The most popular message was “No Kings,” and their variations (“No King since 1775”), followed by “fascist,” and “Hitler,” and “TACO,” including “TACO Trump,” which literally means “Trump Always Chickens Out Trump.” I saw some really good ones, but without any means of recording, I’ve forgotten every one of them.

Some people wrote in marker on the back of boxes. Some went after them on poster board. Some pasted art onto their boards. Some professionally printed their signs in foam. One person constructed a sculpture of a taco that he wore as a hat. One person held up their sign with a tennis racket. A lot of the cars had signs of their own.

Later in the afternoon, when we changed location, I noticed a family. Mom held up a sign I couldn’t read. Brother, about thirteen, broadcast his boredom on full volume. Dad was hanging out with Sister.

Sister, about eight or nine years old, and blessed with the most adorable black curls you’ll ever see, was deeply into the protest. She whooped, she yelled, she waved her arms around. She wrote on the back of a plate with a ballpoint pen and made sure everyone driving by saw it.

I had two art boards I couldn’t wait to get rid of and acrylic pens that were going to waste. I offered them up the family, the girl went nuts. I had four colors: black, white, red, and green, and she used them. At the risk of boasting, I think I made that girl’s day, and I feel pretty great about it. They returned my pens, and we found the guy giving away free pizza.

Passing by were hoards of older ladies who would leave the safety of their group to photograph interesting signs. One of them snapped Sophia’s and moved along. I said it was okay because my sign wasn’t very good. Sophia, always the cheerleader, told me it was.

The first one was rushing past, and she did a double-take and backed up. She said, “I really like your sign.” She looked at it again. “I really like your sign.” She walked away and came right back. “Actually, can I take a photograph?” The other three women who took my picture didn’t hesitate. They asked permission and snapped and kept going.

We lasted a little over two hours, and we did not get arrested. Now that we have signs, we might as try a few of these out. Hopefully, they can be the positive experience this one was.

Pride Goeth Before the Summer

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I’ve never been to a Pride parade before, even though I’d lived for a long time in cities that had big ones. I was never interested, to be honest. I have always been pro-LGBT, and I’d outgrown parades since I was too old to fight children for candy (thirty-three).

This feels like an important year, though, so I should show my support. Besides, I am part of the LGBTQIA umbrella. (It might surprise you to know this, but the A doesn’t stand for asexual. It stands for ally.) I also need to be in crowds sometimes. Did I need to be in the crowd this will likely be? What if I have a meltdown? I went back and forth on this all morning Saturday, until I decided to go for it. I took my four-hundred-dollar SmartCard and left my wallet behind (the credit cards for the pickpockets, and the ID in case the gestapo show up.)

The parade started at two, so I left and noon to beat the horde. I was not expecting what I found when I arrived before one o’clock. I assumed it would be several blocks from the start before I could even see the parade route. I arrived to an empty barricade. That meant I could get closer to the start, so I headed in that direction, until I felt like. I could stand anywhere I wanted.

Since the only place to cross Fourteenth was at the start, I did so and explored the neighborhood. This was 12:53.

There was an awkward, failed attempt to buy weed and a very condescending bookseller. Otherwise, I found nothing of interest. On the correct side of the street, I found a place in perpetual shade to camp out in. I checked my phone. It was 1:06. Fifty-four minutes until the parade, and gays were always late. [Editor’s note: I don’t think this is true.] This was going to be a long wait.

Facing the parade route let me observe the “PRIDE IS OF THE DEVIL,” “JESUS SAVES,” and “REPENT NOW” signs. With my back to the route, I could ogle the partygoers of all, and I mean all, genders as the crowd filled out. Some wore rainbows, and some did their makeup special. They were mostly normal people.

The swamis baffled me. While they hovered nearby, I tried to think of the best way I could ask them what was up with their clothes. “What’s up with your clothes?” was not the way I wanted to do it.

That was how I almost missed a young, cocky woman with purple hair, bouncing by. Her sleeveless top was also purple, as well the 25 percent of the flag rising from the back of her head. The flag also had white, black, and gray. “Hey!” I shouted at her. She was too far away, and it was getting loud.

I returned to the empty parade-lude to see a tall, black woman emerge from a limo to thunderous applause. I feel like I should have known who that was, but I couldn’t tell. She looked bored, but I could barely see her to tell for sure. Even though I was the first person here, a large area had been set aside in front of me for disabled people, mostly the hearing impaired. I watched them converse excitedly with their hands, talking over each other. Everybody was having a great time.

I decided to get back to people-watching and turned around, but that opened me up to the attention of the guy on the other side of the sidewalk, selling Jell-O shots. He was a salesman. He knew, if he could get me to come over there and talk to him, he would get a sale. He would not take no for an answer.

To free myself, I turned back around, and there she was, the asexual woman! Displaying the lack of fucks it’s taken me a half-century to build up, I tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Hi, I’m ace!”

“What?”

“I’m asexual!” I shouted at her.

She devoted her full attention to me.

“I didn’t expect to see any asexuals here!” I shouted.

“Here I am!” she shouted back.

“I figure it out late in life, so I don’t know any people like me!”

“You know me! I’m Rachel!”

“Jeremiah!”

We learned a lot about each other for the next hour. She was born in Minnesota, but moved to Maryland when she was seven. She’s thirty. I asked her if she remembered anything about Minnesota, and she told me school, sledding, mostly the winters. We talked about art. We talked about music.

“I thought gay bikers were extinct,” I said, not referring to motorcyclists themselves, but of the leather daddy stereotype from the seventies and eighties.

She loved ASL, so she translated some of what I was seeing in the disabled area. Where I thought they were talking over each other, one was making the gesture that meant “Same.” Another gesture indicated that they were paying attention. “Like I’m doing now,” I said. She didn’t think it was funny.

She worked for the Maryland Parks department, and she also planned out their PR. If I’m ever in Silver Spring for a parade, she will be one of the mascots. The owl is the most comfortable suit, and the beaver sags in the crotch. I suggested a harness.

She told me that the day before was a convention for the Asexual Alliance of the Mid-Atlantic, which she’d only just found out about.

She said someone next to her was getting too intimate with her, and she was about to ask me to trade spots.

She wore a cross-body bag across her hip, so I thought it was an enormous fanny pack. Whatever it was, it was bigger in the inside than it was on the outside. She has to check for her watch, wallet, and keys periodically, and this took over a minute of digging.

I noted, after we’d been chatting for a while, that we were brushing up against each other. It was kind of flirty, but not in a sexual way. It was flirty in a cozy way. My personal bubble is a demilitarized zone, which is a strange thing for a man who likes crowds so much to say. She was pulling in close to me not because she had to, but because it felt safe.

“I like to do stuff like this alone!” she shouted. “If I had been with a group of friends, I never would have met you!”

The parade started, and it took a long time to get going. Each group pulled onto Fourteenth Street and waited, and waited. When it did get going, the main attraction at the beginning was an organized group hauling a large rainbow flag. And there was more flag. And there was even more flag.

“How do they clean that?” I asked.

She laughed. “It’s a flag you can measure in minutes.” It took four minutes for the flag to go by.

The celebrity from earlier was waving, half-assedly, from the back of a Corvette. This was Laverne Cox, whose name I recognized.

The gay bikers drove by.

After that, it was just another parade. There were banners, marching bands, fire trucks, and floats. Instead of candy, they threw balls into the crowd, which seemed to me to be a bad idea. Rachel almost got one in the face. Compared to bacchanal I was expecting, it was really wholesome.

When the parade stalled out again, Rachel told me she was going to see the vendors and figure out how to cross the street. There was a concert she wanted to see. And that was it. That’s what a one-night-stand looks like to an ace like me.

She was delightful, and she made an impression, and I wish I had gotten her number. But I didn’t because making friends at this age is like dating. You are just as likely to get ghosted as you are from someone you met on Tindr. What would be the point of making this into a disappointing memory? I just had an enchanting afternoon with someone interesting. She wasn’t asking me for my number.

The reason I didn’t go with her was because I was exhausted. I had been standing since I got off the train, and I had to walk ten blocks to get here. It was another ten blocks back, plus another mile home when I got to my station. In fact, I didn’t last much longer, and within an hour, my feet were propped up on my bed.

I’m glad I went. It was a little disappointing, to be honest, but I ended up connecting, however briefly, with a kindred spirit. I hope she tells her friends about this cool old person she met at the parade, so my spirit is floating out there freely, among the thirty-year-olds from Minnesota in Maryland.

They Say It’s your Birthday

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I don’t like to make a big deal of my birthday, but I still have three iron-clad rules:

  1. I will have finished a self-portrait and summed up the previous year in one word.
  2. I will take the day off from work and from doing anything I don’t want to do.
  3. I will eat cake.

Here’s the thing with cake and myself: neither of my parents were chefs. The food wasn’t terrible, but, they managed to collapse a Betty Crocker recipe every year. We called them Charlie Brown cakes, and I wish I could have one again.

Monday, I posted my portrait, I shuffled around my apartment, nowhere to be, and I had some cake. The rest of the day, I worked on my project. My friend Emily tells me people-watching is addictive, and I’m inclined to believe her. I needed my fix.

Luckily, I had accepted an invitation to the Blood Editors’ Retreat Dinner. The choice of cuisine meant I was having Indian food on my birthday, and I wasn’t paying for it, so happy birthday to me. The best part was that they served entrees tapas-style for sharing. Usually, I just order Tikki Masala (the Official Dish of England), but this dinner introduced me through so many exciting new dishes.

I took my seat at the end of the table, and the two people closest to me were Dr. Mario, an Italian, and Dr. Erica, from Australia. Dr. Mario’s accent was very thick, and the room was so loud as editors caught up and had a good time that I struggled to understand. He is from Pavia, which I’ve heard of, probably through Shakespeare.

Dr. Mario was very interested in where I’m from. I usually tell people I was raised in New Mexico and leave it at that. But that skips over Nebraska, Indiana, New York adjacent, Oklahoma, and Central Jersey, Qatar, etc. I stuck with the Southwest, and he told me how much he loved Ansel Adams.

I’m not entirely sure why I went off on a rant about Italian drivers in the presence of Dr. Mario and the Editor-in-Chief, but I committed to it once I did. “These guys will drive up what are clearly pedestrian walkways,” I said, “where there is not an atom between the car and the wall.” If they were serious about catching Vin Diesel, they’d send Italian cab drivers.

Dr. Erica did not want to talk about work, so she talked about me. These editors are academics and science writers, and they think fiction is magic. When Dr. Erica found out I’d written and (almost) published a novel, she had to tell everyone.

Blood publishes research papers, and when they find one that’s really good, they ask one of the peer reviewers to write a brief commentary on why the paper is worth reading. I tell you this to put some context into the following conversation, which took place among several accents.

“Which one of us is going to write the commentary for his novel then?”

“We can’t publish one in Blood without a hematology angle.”

“Jeremiah says it’s about a werewolf.”

“Do werewolves suck blood?”

“No, that’s vampires.”

“It’s a shame your book couldn’t be about vampires, Jeremiah.”

“Wait. Werewolves turn people into werewolves by biting them.”

“A pathogen then?”

“More of a transfusion.”

“I’m a transfusion specialist. I can write the commentary!”

I do have my limits, and I reached them shortly after the last course. I retreated home to enjoy a second slice of cake before curling up, while Oscar did the same, just out of arm’s reach.

The Odd Couple

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A year ago, I was getting used to life without Newcastle. I’d retrieved his ashes, I put his food and water dishes away, and built a shrine. The hardest part was getting rid of his litter box.

I had bought him some steps because he couldn’t jump anymore, and they’re still there, fifteen months later, and I still ache a little when I see them. I don’t move them because I don’t want to the ache to go away.

I wasn’t lonely. It was almost a relief when he died because I didn’t have to give him several medications a day or clean his food bowls. I still miss him so much. I had decided not to get another cat. The loss of Newcastle hurt more than I could bear, and the last thing I wanted to do was replace him.

Life rarely listens to what you have to say.

A year ago, I was receiving a voice call, which was weird. It was from Noel, so I panicked. She asked if I could stash a feral cat for a couple of weeks. She and her partner were trying to corner a skeletal kitten who was licking a Reese’s wrapper. I said of course.

I still had Newcastle’s food and water bowls, as well as some of his food, so I whipped up a feast for my new guest. He arrived, and he was a friendly little guy who was pretty hungry. He also liked attention, which meant he had to stop eating for the ten seconds he got pets, and that was filling him with a lot of conflict. It was a bit of a roller coaster.

Noel needed me to hang onto him while he got tested for bugs, germs, and parasites. He couldn’t come home with her because he might have leukemia, or something, which could kill Henry. Henry was the love of her life.

Newcastle was the love of my life, and this creature, who I called Potato, looked exactly like he did when he was a teenager—less like a cat and more like an otter. The big difference was the white patch. For Newcastle, it was on his belly, but for Potato, it was on the tip of his tail.

He stayed with me for the next several days, eating, exploring, eating, napping, and eating. Noel was paying for all of that food and the vet visit. Her partner and I went in together, got all of the appropriate samples taken (except for, ugh, stool), a quick check of his coat and vitals. I pointed out to her partner that they probably thought we were a couple.

Because of the starvation, it was tough to get an accurate estimate, but he was about twelve-to-thirteen months old. Other than that, he was in perfect shape. That meant he belonged to someone, but there were no missing posters in the neighborhood.

Noel asked if I wanted to keep him, I said I’d think about it, but I’d definitely let him hang out for two weeks or, like, whatever. At the end of the two weeks, I concluded I didn’t know how I felt, but I did like having a roommate again.

Did this mean betraying the memory of Newcastle? I was still in mourning. I still am. I wasn’t supposed to get another cat. All I have of Newcastle is a stuffed animal, and now there’s this creature demanding all my attention.

I welcomed him into my home. Newcastle’s automatic feeder, food bowls, and so on, were getting used again. I set an eating schedule and have failed to live up to it, by which I mean I keep feeding him earlier. Soon, I’ll be feeding him yesterday. The cat tree hammock Newcastle never seemed to enjoy was now helping a young cat lounge.

Noel came by to get my final decision. She was disappointed because Henry needs a friend. He was mourning Newcastle too, and still is. While she was here, we discussed names because she was violently opposed to Potato. She also, shot down my preferred nom de guerre of Shenanigan. She’s right, that would have been a terrible name. Meanwhile, I vetoed Reese before she could even finish saying it. That didn’t stop her from suggesting it several more times.

While the little guy divided his time evenly between us, she and I tried several names on. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit. He was too young and too feral to have a personality, but I wanted to give him the exact right name. All I knew about was that he was friendly. She took out her phone and scrolled through baby name websites.

I remember she read “Oscar,” and we had kept going, but it sunk in, several names later. He did look like an Oscar. I got him a collar and a cool lightning-bolt tag.

This is really hard to say, but I don’t love him. I’d do anything for him, but I don’t feel the same way I did with Newcastle a few months into our friendship. Maybe it’s a different kind of love. I don’t know.

I do know that I like having him around. This place was too quiet. Even after all this time, we’re still getting used to each other.

I have someone I can say inane things to and not be judged. I have someone to pet. I have someone to take care of. Those things mean a lot. It’s good to share this space with something alive.

My mother thinks that Newcastle, in cat heaven, sent Oscar to me so I wouldn’t be alone. That’s a really good thought, and I like thinking it.

Late Bloomer

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I tried to catch the tail end of the Cherry Blossom festival today, but I missed all the flowers but a small patch away from the water. I was taking pictures of them when three women in their fifties asked me to take their picture. When I handed Woman 1’s phone back, she said:

WOMAN 1: Thank you, sir. Now, are you an expert on cherries?

ME: No, I don’t believe I am.

WOMAN 1:  I thought maybe these were a special kind of cherry tree that doesn’t have any cherries. Are they a special kind of cherry tree that doesn’t have cherries?

ME: I—

WOMAN 1: Have you been to the tidal basin? Are there cherries?

ME: N—

WOMAN 2: Where are my cherries!

WOMAN 1: He says these are special cherry trees that don’t have cherries.

WOMAN 2: Is he an expert on cherries?

ME: I live here, and I’ve never seen cherries.

WOMAN 2: It’s cold!

ME: You should have been here last week. I thought I didn’t have to wear socks anymore.

WOMAN 1: We’ve been here four days.

WOMAN 2: It’s too damned cold!

WOMAN 3: Nice to meet you!

A Tale of Two Baristas

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I’m a very boring person. It can take a crane to get me out of my apartment. If it’s raining, forget about it. I’m living in a working retirement, so I’m making the most of my time.

Ordinarily, my day goes breakfast, hygiene, art (or draw on the train and for an hour before doing my job), then work in the morning, veg out in the afternoon and write in the evening. On the weekends, instead of working in the morning, I go to a coffee house.

This weekend in particular, I mostly lavished my attention on an ambitious art project, but I also wrote two thousand words of a new short story, and on Saturday, I had an outing. I went to my new favorite café, Ididos, my now-second-favorite café, Kaldi, and stopped at the art supply store for an art emergency. I came home, began this very post, and looked over my proofs.

The reason I don’t think of myself as a boring person is because I see every inconvenience as an insurmountable obstacle, every irritation a test of my moral character. Every time I get lost, I’m exploring a new territory, and my walk home from work is a journey. It’s how I keep myself from going insane.

My outing for this week was to hang out in Kaldi, because it was close to an art store. I had to go to the art store because either Oscar or myself lost my eraser. If you’ve tracked my artistic progress over the past two years, you know it took a while to pair with the best eraser for Jeremiah. This could not wait until I could visit to the one around the corner from work. This was urgent.

I raced to catch the first train to Maryland, which I thought was 7:15, but was actually 7:45. I was not waiting thirty-plus minutes in the station. But if I went home, I would immediately have to turn back around and take the uphill walk to the station. Basically, if I went home, I was staying there.

I strategized and concluded that I’d go to my Ididos and make the art store a tomorrow problem. From the Metro station, I was halfway there anyway. I ordered an egg sandwich, an iced coffee, and a berry beet smoothie, some of which smeared a page of my sketchbook.

I first discovered Ididos last Wednesday, so I was unprepared for the weekend crowd. They were Elder Millennials, and they looked like they were handling the economy just fine. Most of them were hauling babies around in papooses, except for the dad who hauled around a small Scottish Terrier. There were anywhere between three and forty-seven more mobile children, demanding the attention of parents who ignored them.

And let me tell you, I was fucking awesome. I did not get overwhelmed, I did not get frustrated, I did not get infuriated. At worst, I was annoyed, because I knew with conviction that this would end. I drew the barista and left when I started feeling antsy-in-my-pantsy.

Energized, I caught the train to Maryland, sat at the counter in Kaldi, enjoyed another fantastic smoothie (among its diverse ingredients were pineapple, ginger, and turmeric), and drew a barista, who was very different than the last one.

I was not feeling overwhelmed, like I often did during my outings, so I finished my drawings. However, while I was self-bussing, I realized my belt was malfunctioning, and I was about two steps away from my pants being around my ankles. I deposited my empty glasse, grabbed onto my pants, and walked, with dignity, to the men’s room.

That was not the most awkward thing to happen to me today.

The art store was not awkward. The art store lady did not look happy to be there. When I asked her to open the marker cage, she hemmed and hawed and rolled her eyes. I bought my eraser and the markers and left, to stand on the aboveground Metro platform while an older woman announced, with gusto, that Jesus allowed horrible things to happen to him four our benefit, and maybe she should be grateful for something for once in our lives. When the train arrived, she had the car to herself.

The first thing I noticed after I settled in was that the big, balding dork was reading a physical book. Point to the nerd. Then I noticed it was a Dungeons and Dragons monster manual, and he won all the points.

You know what? I was going to tell him. I was making it my mission to complement people more, so I tried to catch his eye and give him a thumbs up. This was the extent of interaction I wanted to have with anyone at that point. I’d had a long morning.

No luck. He was deep inside that manual. He was memorizing it. When the train pulled into the station, I was going to step outside my comfort zone. I was going to use my words. The best part was that I had timed this perfectly. I could say, “Good job!” then jump off the train before it got awkward.

I waved at him. I stepped closer and waved again. He looked up, and I said, “Hi! Dungeons and Dragons is awesome! Let your geek flag fly, man! You’re awesome!” I even gave him a thumbs up.

He pulled his earbuds out and said, “What?”

I went through the whole thing again, without as much passion. He told me was going through the new edition to see what’s different from the last one. I told him I wasn’t up to date, and he said, “I know. It’s pointless.”

And a hush fell over the car. I suddenly realized the door hadn’t opened yet. I wasn’t going anywhere. I had no idea what to say after that. How do you follow, “It’s pointless”? And the door still hadn’t opened!

It did, and I rushed to the escalator so I could walk down the stops, but a Maryland-bound train had also arrived, so it was a full platform. As I navigated the agreed-upon flow of foot traffic, I realized, to my horror, that D&D guy was behind me. The escalator was clogged, so I had to ride it. With him on the step behind me. I lost him at the turnstiles.

Tuesday, when they’ll ask me what I did over the weekend, I will tell them, “Went to the art store. Worked on my art.” No wonder people think I’m boring.

Whistling While I Work

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It was inevitable: I needed to return to the office. But first, my schedule: I wake up at four a.m. I know, I know. I catch the 5:15 train to Farragut North, followed by a four-block walk, a brief detour into the Wa-Wa for a breakfast sandwich, which for me is tuna salad on a croissant, and at my desk by 5:50. Take another five minutes to wake up the coffee machine (my ungrateful coworkers will never know what I have to endure being first in), and I have a solid hour to draw, not a minute wasted to get here.

So when I arrived at the metro station, a mile from my apartment, without my magical badge, my entire morning was fucked. I went back, grabbed the goddamned thing, disappointed my cat, and called an Uber, the only way I was getting a full hour in before work. As a man whose strict routines have kept him sane, I craved that full hour.

For some reason, the Uber GPS led the driver to the other side of the roundabout, and I thought he left, and then he picked me up, then he apologized and explained himself for over five minutes, and I didn’t need this kind of chaos. I was still twitchy.

I should have just worked from home. But I needed to be there. I needed to sit down in the breakroom, listen to podcasts and work on a piece of art for an hour. I needed to reset myself. I needed to be around people I knew. I needed to do this for myself.

The Uber dropped me off a few minutes after six. I did not get a full hour of art in, though I did finish one drawing. When you look at it, try not to think about the height of the counter. Like, what is she standing on?

A few minutes after seven, I dove right into the 171 emails I received, between the three inboxes I monitored, confirmed that my boss and my colleagues had already taken care of most of it, and moved onto where I was needed.

While I got caught up, the second person in was Work Dad, dressed in workout gear and looking like a Gen-X skateboarder. This was a side of him people who showed up on time never got to see. I weep for them. The third person at the office reminds me of a gray golden retriever because she is simultaneously shy and effusive, and she’s got a little slouch.

The fourth person who shows up is my Emergency Backup Boss. (She’s still a boss, but she’s not my main boss.) Before the vast office reshuffling, EBB and I were neighbors, and we’d check in with each other every morning. She is far away from me now, so we don’t see each other as much. But she dropped by to check up on me this morning, and I filled her in on everything.

I noted that I was talking very fast, and I was having a difficult time shutting myself up. That is a bad sign.

There was an employee luncheon that afternoon, and she and my boss talked me into going. When the hour arrived, we left with a group, but EBB and I got way ahead of everybody because it was cold, and we were hungry. I followed her around because either she knew what she was doing, or she was acting like she did, and I needed that confidence to hold onto.

There was too much chaos, but I had a plate full of boutique quesadillas I needed to shove into my mouth before I ran out, screaming, whapping people square in the face with my backpack. I found myself at the bar, sipping a mocktail called a DuPont sunrise, with Mr. Production.

Mr. Production and I are a lot alike. We’re both middle-aged white men with gray hair. We are both devoted to making our colleagues’ jobs easier. And we’re both really fucking awkward.

We had a lovely conversation, and I ended up staying almost a half an hour later as a result. He told me how he worked at the same society as the Loquacious One, but not at the same time. I told him that hemoglobin was a weird thing to select for in evolution.

Despite that fact that the chips and guac line was behind him, this turned out to be a great getaway from the hassle of the restaurant. I had a lot of work to do before I could call it quits for the day, so I finished my DuPont sunrise and left the restaurant calm and a little rested, if you can believe it.

How did I do? I think I talked too much, which is bad. I figured out how to tip without getting a bill, and I tipped the staff a lot. Throwing money around is bad.

On the other hand, my thoughts were under control, I was focused, and I was patient. I adapted to inconveniences more efficiently because I wasn’t resorting to violence.

I have an appointment with my doctor this evening, and we’ll see where it goes from there.

Busy Being Dizzy

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I’m not going to list everything I did today, suffice it to say, at one point, I crawled under my bed with a broom because somehow Oscar got kitty litter under all of my suitcases.

I’m back on the time-release stimulant, and I have so much freaking energy right now. It’s got me concerned because it feels manic, but my thoughts aren’t racing, and I’m not irritable. I did have to tell the woman at the cafe I discovered this morning how awesome their place is, which is not typical for me.

I go back to work tomorrow, and I have no idea what to expect. I’ve got 74 emails in my personal inbox, but the staff has been working to cover for me for everything else. They didn’t need my help in my absence, and that kind of makes me feel unloved.

That’s just tasks. I don’t know how I will be in an office. The headaches are ongoing and a little more frequent, even as I’ve been back on Vyvanse, so it’s not withdrawal, as my doctor suspects. I’m incredibly calm, focused, and productive, so maybe it’s not the mania.

I don’t feel out of the woods yet, but I have a life, and I need to return to it.

In the meantime, here’s an actual photo of me being manic.

Psycho Killer, Que L’Enfer?

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A common trigger for manic episodes is a sleep disruption. Starting with tech week, I’d been going to sleep three-to-four hours after my bedtime. I’d wake up at my normal hour, which is ungodly, feed Oscar, and start my day. I was tired at work, but otherwise functioning. Then the manic episode kicked in.

My doctor prescribed a medication he described as a “sledgehammer,” which I was looking forward to, but no pharmacy had it. To be fair, there are hundreds of pharmacies in town, and I only called eleven, but I sensed a pattern. He even called his ace-in-the-hole drugstore, and they didn’t have it.

His solution was to prescribe another antipsychotic for my first night, this one like “a sledgehammer, but heavier,” which I couldn’t wait to try. That night, I went to the theater, regretted some things I said, and looked forward to one more evening of that. I took an Uber home, welcomed the sledgehammer, and curled up in bed.

I woke up at my usual time Friday morning to feed the cat, then I went back to bed for three hours. I was sluggish most of the day and took a lot of naps. Since I had to leave early the night before, due to being overwhelmed (which I described as “sick”), Monique texted me and told me not to come in that night, but rather for closing Saturday. I said, “Thank you,” and I took another nap. I fell asleep at six p.m. and woke up at my normal time.

I felt like a zombie all day Saturday, and all I wanted to do was lie in bed. I’d sit at my desk, look at a partial sketch, strategize, then lie back down. To shake some of the rust off, I explored my parking garage, and the next day, I went looking for Fort Totten Park, which is on the map, but is hard to get to. Turns out, there is no park there, only a conservatory. I did find a park, but it was more of a memorial next to an endless expansive of community gardens.

Feeling slow, I braced myself to go to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, where Maddie was already there to do all the work. I was needed to help with strike, and to make an appearance at the cast party.

From the opening trumpet of act one, I had an excruciating headache—not a migraine, but a cousin at the least. Maddie found me two Tylenol, and I stuck it out. Somehow, after the final bow, I found myself wrapping up running lights and removing their gaffer tape, while also getting electrocuted. This did not give me superpowers.

I did another awkward thing, where my brain was shouting, “Abort!” but my mouth kept going. It’s surreal. I used shrooms on Shane’s birthday, and I hated it. But it’s nothing compared to what I’ve been going through. But, yes, I told Elizabeth she was “Really cool,” and I didn’t exit so as to avoid creepiness. She was gracious, but I can only assume she was uncomfortable.

By the time I finished with the gaffer tape, most of the work was done, and they didn’t need my help with anything. I still had the headache, so I sat in the changing room and physically held my head back from exploding. I was about to leave when I noticed a gift bag with my name on it. Even though they’d understand, I would feel rude if I left without it. Also, I wanted to know what was in the bags.

The mushroom is baffling, but greatly appreciated. Monique said she’d be in touch, and I’ve been talking to some of the producers about donating some art to future shows. The problem is, if this sleep situation led to my psychotic break, like I suspect, I won’t be able to go out and play like I want to.

After all the gifts were given out, I hired an Uber, which smelled of stale weed. So I did what I’ve been doing since I had my first meltdown: just grabbed onto the “Oh Shit handle” and just let it happen.

Manic Panic

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As you know, I’m bipolar, specifically, bipolar 2. That means I’m depressed more often than I’m anything else, leading to misdiagnoses of clinical depression. I have been on all the depression drugs, from Abilify to Zoloft, which has led to discussions that go like great scene in Silver Linings Playbook where Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence discuss the medications they’ve tried the same way Comic book fans talk about their stashes. What I’m trying to say is that I have lived my entire adult being miserable, except for brief breaks where I’m actually myself, or I’m hypomanic. 

Being hypomanic can be a lot of fun. It’s like having a couple of drinks, and you’re funnier, better looking, and more charming. I’m pretty sure every woman who’s fallen in love with me has done so when I’m hypomanic.

Also, I’m irritable and downright angry. I can’t stop talking, and I’m grandiose. I regret so much of what I do when I’m manic. There is a member of my pantheon of fictional characters who is based on my mania. His name is Max. (Same first two letters—see what I did there?)  Max is an asshole. When I’m hypomanic, I become an asshole.

I spent the least amount of time being normal, and it was tough to tell if anyone actually liked the real me. I wondered how I could be an asshole a third of my adult life without actually being an asshole. Or if I spent six months miserable, did that mean I was just miserable?

Fifteen years ago, my brilliant doctor and I figured it out. It wasn’t some sudden eureka moment. (DOCTOR: “It’s a great day to come to the zoo and see a polar bear … wait. Polar! That’s it!”) He isn’t House. He’s actually like this guy I met in North Jersey who used to hang out with my Uncle Larry. But I digress. It took months of experimentation and patience for us to reach an accurate diagnose because psychiatry isn’t a science, it’s art.

We found a cocktail that worked. I know it worked because I went to bed depressed one night, and I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, but not manic. I was myself, and I’ve been myself since 2017. The downside is that, when you’re on enough lithium, your emotions are muffled. I’m like a cruise ship: when the waves slam into me, I may tip for a second (I have a bad temper), but I return to normal pretty quickly. This may be one of the reasons Kate divorced me.

There have been a number speed bumps along the way.

Sometimes, when you have a mental illness, and you are relying on drugs to function, they stop working. You have to start from scratch. It happened to me in 2015, and took over a year to right myself. I brush my teeth, get ready for work, work, come home and pet my cat, write and draw, make dinner, and go to bed, all the time being aware this will happen again.

Sometimes, I’ll get hypo-depressed, where I can’t sleep, but it’s all I want to do. It doesn’t make me feel sad and worthless, but I experience a lot of the physical symptoms, like aching joints.

Sometimes, I’ll get hypo-hypomanic, which is the good parts plus some crankiness.

I don’t tell my doctor about either of these because I don’t want to mess with my medication. We have been polishing this cocktail for years, and I’m afraid to live without it. Also, if I’m being perfectly honest, it’s kind of nice to be hypo-hypomanic.

Otherwise, the real me is a hermit, and I haven’t made any long-term friends for a very long time. When I’m hypomanic, the relationships may last minutes, but they’re life-changing.

Weeks ago, when I started getting involved with the community theater and having great conversations, and meeting protestors and hanging out, I wrote ten long blog entries over two weeks. I was clearly hypomanic. I hesitated to call my doctor because I was enjoying myself. It’s so easy to go from manic to depressed, and I didn’t want to rush that.

I melted down at work on a Thursday, and again the following Wednesday. I missed a train and screamed “Fuck!” in a crowded platform. I feel like a cat on stilts. If the internet cuts out, even for a minute, I’m going to throw my laptop out the window.

I called my doctor, and he prescribed me an emergency supply of an antipsychotic to keep me calm and he helped me sleep. He told me to take the next week off work and to stay home and sleep as much as I can. I’m need to lay off my ADHD medication because it’s all stimulants, as well as the devil weed, which is a mild hallucinogen, and it would stimulate me. I am to stay in my apartment with two exceptions:

One exception is my commitment to the St. Mark’s Players. After a long Day One under house arrest, I had to pull myself together and be around other people when I keep losing control over myself.

For example, I was pleasantly surprised to see my favorite eccentric, platinum blonde theater volunteer, Elizabeth. She remembered me and was genuinely excited when she caught my attention. I said, “You look great! Really great!” She assured me it was just work clothes, but I reiterated how great she looked. And she did, but still.

I did not want to do that. She is half my age. Even though my motives are pure, and I genuinely wanted to compliment her, there are rules, and I was stepping over them. My body wanted to keep talking, but I tried to reel me in, resulting in words that sounded backwards. It happened again when I was trying to give directions to my favorite bar in New York, which is probably not there anymore.

I had two more conversations like this at the theater. On top of that, I had to call eleven pharmacists earlier to find the antipsychotic he prescribed, but I still couldn’t find it. I was an asshole to every one of them. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I was telling my mouth what to say, and my mouth was being a real dick about it.

That’s just words. I want to assault people for moving too slowly. I want to beat my desk to death with my ergonomic chair. I am holding myself together with all the energy I have. As I told my boss after my second meltdown, that was me holding myself together.

I don’t have control over my own body. This has been my constant thought since my first meltdown. What happens when I have low blood sugar, and I can’t keep it contained? What happens when I stub my toe, and the bad me gets loose? And there’s nothing to stop my mouth from saying something it shouldn’t. I can’t even regulate my thoughts.

I can see treating this creepy asshole as a separate person, like the Hulk. But it’s not. It’s my voice. It’s my body. It’s my mind. Unlike a cranky Bruce Banner, I don’t get to black out when I’m being destructive. I have to watch myself do it and live with the consequences.

I have to go out to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church again tonight, with all those people, and Elizabeth (who, at least, didn’t act creeped out the rest of the night), and maybe something that’s going to set me off.

I don’t know what I’m going to do or when I’m going to do it, but I’m awaiting this next fuckup, as I have been for over a week. I’m scared. I’m in an ongoing state of vigilance, and I’m so, so tired.