Rescheduled
They took my vitals. 130/70. Resting heart rate was 60. A month prior it was 120/80 and 70. I was overweight a few pounds but the Doctor wasn't concerned. And that's not why I was there.
It wasn't my heart. It was my heartbreak. She had been ignoring me for weeks. Telling me she loved me. Helping me, and then disappearing. She said "Be patient," and that "We're two pieces of the puzzle," but all I kept doing was waiting. Frittering and ruminating all my thoughts. If she loves me, why is she so secret? Why do we only meet once in a while? Why won't she provide me a phone number? Why does she perpetually pop back up with an excuse on why she has been incognito?
I wasn't going to tell the Doctor this. We had been corresponding via e-mail. At first, he diagnosed me with general depression. It was a month of pill-popping and I just had jitters. She was going to leave me. Even though we never had a fight. It was going to be like Lisa, circa 2008. I was going to be disposed of.
She was known to jump out of my life and then jump back in. But this time, it was really getting to me. We had planned a summer together of fun and romance. "I want to see you every other day," but it was the end of July and I had only seen her once. She was busy with her own classes. Nursing classes of all things. It was her own life. And I was left to be the poet and torture myself with sentimentality.
Enough was enough. I wasn't going to wait and ache. "Obsessive thinking," I told him in an email.
"Clearly this isn't up my alley but come on in." He wanted me to see an actual shrink. I had been in therapy before in two different states. So many arguments about life and love. "It will happen for you, it will." And it was, technically. Only, she was never really around. Only a few times in the first half of the year, albeit the brief times were amazing. Did she really love me?
"I'll work with you till I can find you a psychiatrist. It might take a few months," is what the Doctor said. Obviously, I wasn't the only tortured soul in the world but this had been a repeat done to death. Why were they flakey? Why did I have to write a screenplay about it seven years prior, have a soul retrieval from a shaman, fall in love again only to repeat the same fleeting glimpse of love with no allocation of a justified reasoning of where it went sour?
He gave me the Rx and I tried it. It was supposed to make me present, centered. No more rumination. Take your energy and write. Act. Teach. Live. Breathe! Love! Oh, wait, not the last one. That one can't be cured. Not with a pill, nor with a diagnosis or a public service announcement. It was up to the love of my life. And she was nowhere to be found.
All I wanted to do was drink. Pour a drink for myself and let it blend in with belief. Belief that this wasn't really happening. That I was in the relationship where we saw each other and embraced the love. Embraced each other, and enhanced our lives.
But instead, I took to the boredom. I laid on the bed in the "love nest" I arranged for us that summer and instead, stared at the walls. They had nothing to say back.
I wanted to ask the walls if I shouldn't have believed her? Was she lying eleven months ago when we first consummated at her initiation? Nine months ago when she said she was falling in love with me? Nine months ago when we shared the "blanket of love" by her words on Christmas night and orgasmed together?
They couldn't answer me. All I could do was take another pill and go to sleep. It was the perfect drug. The doctor knew it. The shaman knew it. There wasn't an answer. This drug was about avoiding the answer.
July 31, 2014
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