Where I Am

We are dogsitting two ancient Llasa Apso's, Rusty (19) and Lucy (18). As a part of the gig we get to stay in a beautiful Capitol Hill townhouse. Mingus declares it to be a heaven: "There's a TV in every room including the bathroom!!!" and ensconced himself in a Lazy Boy Massage chair paradise in front of the large Plasma in the basement after we arrived.

I have other worries.

The Geodon they had me on has finally washed out of my system, which has left me with a terrible case of anxiety. I'm in the middle of a move, and Ernesto has made it impossible for me to scour the neighborhood for boxes. This is an emergency because the movers arrive tomorrow morning and they will happily charge $3-$12 per box in the event I have none. Unfortunately ye olde "put it in a trash bag" mode of packing is unacceptable to ABS Moving and Storage Co.

Thankfully I've found a small room for $550 a month in the Georgia Avenue / Petworth section of Northwest DC. Finally in NW, though not exactly the North Whitey area (that's what Charles calls it). It's called ghetto because historically it was rough up there. Compared to Anacostia it's tame. Just ghetto because it's colored. I'll have no problems and it's a lot closer to downtown and friends who were too scared to cross the river to see me in SE.

It's so good to spend the weekend with Mingus. He's living with my mother in the suburbs for the next few months while I "get well". He's enjoying school in the suburbs very much. And when he's not in school he's on his bike, enjoying the bike trails and greenery. But it's difficult for us both. I want you to be "With Me Mommy" not "Away from Me Mommy".

No one in my immediate orbit is returning my calls. It was all "What can we do to help" when I got out of the hospital, but I was too messed up to talk at all. Now when I desperately feel the need to reach out everyone is busy. Or maybe they just don't want to deal with me anymore. Brian tells me that I should listen to this silence and appreciate it for what it is: a time to deal on my own. I know in my heart he is right. But I feel so weak and lonely, tired and sad.

The drugs have worn off and the inept staff at the hospital outpatient clinic have had a difficult time finding a few hours to schedule me in to see a shrink. You're not on Meds! You're Not on Meds! Well, yes, but your doctor didn't bother to prescribe me a drug that my insurance would cover, and it seems (from my EPS like symptoms) that he didn't bother to figure out if the dosage was right for my body.


The tears are returning at a furious rate and I'm terrified of my own joy.