When October Goes

I just returned home from two open mikes, which is quite amazing considering that I was on the floor, sprawled across sixteen pieces of sheet music earlier this evening after finding the music for “When October Goes” by Barry Manilow and being thrust into an old memory I had nearly forgotten.

It was November, 2003 when I visited Steve’s studio to sing some songs in front of his piano accompaniment. I was very excited about building a relationship with him and singing with various pianists, in general. His studio was just a five minute walk from Chris’ and my apartment on Washington Street in Brighton, which was even more exciting. I went to my session an sang that song,which has a melancholy story line which seems to talk about loss of youth, loss of time and just loss in general. The song meant very little to me that day. The very next week, Chris was diagnosed with cancer and I called Steve and told him I wouldn’t be coming back.

For a time, I rode the train to and from Boston each day with the song playing in my CD walkman and I choked back tears worrying about Chris, tortured by thoughts of his death. My eyes filled with tears which I hid behind sun glasses each day. I can still feel exactly how I felt sitting on the green line worrying.

Finding the piece of music tonight, I picked it up and began singing the lyrics and that’s when I fell over defeated by my own disbelief that this entire bizarre, unthinkable event actually happened. I couldn’t pick myself up. I just cried thinking my usual, “No, no, no.” and shaking my head back and forth, trying to make it make sense. It still doesn’t make sense and the song crushes my chest making it impossible for me to breathe.

At that point I thought I was in for the night. When Jimmy called, I told him I was having a hard time with grief and we chitchatted about unrelated topics since he can’t handle my sadness, but even so, together we came up with a plan for me to drop half of an Ativan and try to come out. It worked. I had fun tonight, even though every part of my body and soul felt the loss of Chris tonight. The thoughts, invasive as they are, popped in and out of my head in between distractions and now that I am home, I can feel loss screaming at me from all angles.

I saw people tonight that I haven’t seen in months and in replied to their questions with, “I’m well, thank you. I’m doing good.” My eyes felt sad and empty even though my mouth was smiling and I wonder if anybody but me could feel that. Even if others could sense my sadness, they would never admit it. That’s unpleasant and could jeopardize their comfort. Still, I wonder.

I feel empty without Chris. Still. Forever. I keep trying, though, and I wonder if I have a breaking point and if there is such a point, when and how will it look when I reach it? That thought makes me need to speak with Clay.

I am entering another danger zone, one in which I keep repeating, “He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He can NOT be gone.”

But he is gone and I am having too much trouble coping.

Sometimes I worry that I use Ativan to pull myself out of the hole. Even though I use it sparingly, I am quite aware of the fine line between being a functioning member of society and becoming a dysfunctional degenerate who has thrown in the towel along with her sanity. I wonder if I ever could ever cross that line. Sometimes I don't care what happens to me.

I shared two nice hugs with John tonight. Hugs have healing power.