I was crying like a champion, too. The Bigfoot Monster Truck of crying jags, had I, a jag which crushed past weeping sessions under its tires for the wannabes they were. Great ringing moans that were only interrupted by jumps of my diaphragm as it pumped me for air like a desperate accordion. Crazy, wracking sobs of “Uuuuuuh-huuuuuuuuuuh-h-h-h-huuuuuu...” that were swallowed by the surf.

I don’t know how a dying animal sound like that squeezed its way out of my mouth, which I’d contorted into a grimace so severe that it could have been mistaken for a grin, stretched skinny as the little penny slot at the top of a piggy bank.

I don’t think I’ve ever, ever cried like that. It was the closest I’ve ever come to a meditatiive state.

Like it was the only thing I had to do for the rest of my life, and I could have done it forever. The ocean, which, by the way, didn’t give a shit that I was sitting there sobbing like the world was ending, protected me wiith its wind and roar, and despite its indifference soaked up my grief to deliver it somewhere else and make it into something that mattered.

I really don’t know what the hell was wrong with me, exactly. It was nice to project it towards something so much bigger and louder than I’ll ever be. It kind of freaks me out that I can’t remember a single other time when I’ve felt as purely as when I was sobbing at the ocean.

I sat there heaving for, I don’t know, an hour or so? Then it occurred to me that a young woman wailing in the dark like a Banshee done wrong, armed by nothing but a fistful of keys, a sleeveful of snot, and what could be interpreted to be a Margot Kidder level of imbalance, would look like a pretty easy target for wanderers emerging from Golden Gate Park, so although I felt like I could have cried forever, I pulled myself together. Like flipping a switch, frighteningly enough.

I sat there for a while staring at the great, pulsating wall of anonymous life that is the Pacific, then I flip-flopped my way home with my hood over my head and rocks in my heart.

Since then, I’ve been fighting a post-cry hangover, like my guts have been stretched by the heavy emptiness of a sigh. And I’m still really fucking sad.

I miss my cat. I wish he was around.

The other day some friends and I got to talking about goodbyes. I’m not much of a goodbyer. Farewells feel too ritualistic to be genuine, and their finality never hits me until I’m in a situation where I need someone who isn’t , and cant be, around. What can I say? I’m an asshole who only knows she loves people when she starts taking them for granted.

If you recall, I left my cat, Ziggy, with my uncle when I moved from Chicago to California, because I was moving into a house with a carnivorous pit bull.

So, in thinking of goodbyes, I clearly saw for the first time what Ziggy meant to me. Ziggy was my only roommate, the only presence I could count on seeing every day, for close to three years. He was with me at the height of my miserable fucking eating disorder, when I was working so hard to recover that I apparently forgot to notice how depressed I was. I mean, I knew things were hard, but it wasn’t until last week, when I could look back on them with some perspective, that I really saw how hard those Chicago years were on me. I was concentrating on forgetting the past; meanwhile the present was eating me alive.

I loved my friends, had a decent job, and a busy social life, but I can’t count the number of times I would look around my apartment and notice every surface covered in empty wine and whiskey bottles. I felt aimless and empty. Most nights, I had booze for dinner. The place was usually a mess. I sat inside, drank, chain-smoked, wrote, watched DVDs, and tried to pretend I was okay. I don’t think I let myself feel much of anything. It usually had to talk myself into going out. No one ever came into the apartment, and I can pull off one hell of a game face when I’m out, so no one had any idea this was going on. Not that they could have done anything about it, since I was oblivious to it, myself.

I was meaner to myself than I’d ever dream of being to anyone else, and now I’m feeling a ton of remorse about it.

This sounds lame, but the only witness to me at that low point was Ziggy, and I think his presence was instrumental in me getting through it. He'd curl up with me when I was upset, sensing it before I did. He was such a comfort. It’s not like I would have spontaneously combusted if he hadn’t been there, but it definitely would have been more difficult without him. It’s rather profound to realize that my cat has seen me at a worse state of being than any other living creature ever will. I was the quintessential Cat Lady.

Speaking of denial, I don’t feel like writing anymore today.

~ Last Five Entries ~

7 - 09.12.06

Ragamuffin Chic - 08.11.06

CAMEL NOISES OF DEEP LONGING.
PROBABLY SOUNDS LIKE, "GRAAAAWWWW! GRAAAWWWWW!" THANKS. - 07.11.06

Outer Richmond House - 07.04.06

My Sister's Wedding - 06.27.06

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