Haven’t been able to sleep tonight for reasons I can’t explain. And that is beginning to be a constant theme in my life, in this current situation – whatever you want to call it. Miranda and I used to call these my little midlife crisis – I have them so when I do hit midlife, it won’t be too intense.
Before you go on and assume – as I’m sure a few of you who know my history with her may – she’s not the reason I want to sit out on birthday week. Granted, she may be a footnote in it – she isn’t the main reason I’m deciding against it. At least for myself.
The pangs of worrisome dig deeper than that, calling for me to stay away from something familiar. Because in the last years, the foundation of our friendships have been shifted. It was expected to happen, right? Each of us knew that when we started to hang out that it wasn’t made like some TV sitcom where we hung out at our favorite cafe, sipping our drinks and having a good time. Sooner or later, we all knew it would end. And while reunions can be and are fun, I’m afraid they aren’t made for me.
They’ll bring with them a familiarity that I cannot be expose to at the moment. They’ll remind me of the old days, and I’ll yearn for that again. I’ve already grown accustomed to our separation. Being with each of you again in the same place at the same place will probably be unhealthy for my state of mind at the moment, despite how pleasant it is.
So I’m sitting this one out.
I can’t go on digging roses from your grave, to linger on beyond the beyond…
Eight more days until I’m twenty-seven-years-old and only seven until the birthday week stuff. I don’t know why I called it birthday week. It sort of just stuck after the first year we celebrated, back when it was just Miranda and me, then Binx joined up. Miranda’s birthday is on the fifteen, Binx’s is on the nineteenth and I’m on the twentieth. I still don’t feel right inside, though. About next week. Something’s eating away at me and I’m not looking forward to it. I know I can back down and not join them at her place, and I know that the night would go on without a hitch if I did, but I still feel driven to be there from some misguided responsibility.
I wish I could explain the gravity of my emotions, but talking about my problems was never my strong suit. Most of the times, I just cram them in the back of my mind and close the door on them until they burst out and spill all over the floor, leaving me to pick up the mess. Some times I wish I could rewind the clocks and start this over again. The Binx Obsession of building the proverbial time machine.
That isn’t who I am, however. Wasn’t I always the one who did things and damn the consequences? When did that part of me die? Where did I leave it? Or when did the illusion that I was ever that person fade?
Billy Corgan’s singing in my ear – sh sh sh sh shame – and I have a clean bill of health – I went back for my blood work today – still, I’m looking forward a week and I’m filled with fear. Worry. The weight of the world crushing me.