I have not taken a shit or farted in three days. That is NOT OKAY with me.
Tommy was here. He stayed three nights. Three nights is three nights too long.
The first night I made dinner, to make up for when I broke the rice cooker. I felt like I needed to redeem myself. Granted, I was completely stoned when I tried to make rice for him that one night and ended up throwing the raw rice right in the cooker without the inner pot and turned it in. Burning all the rice and destroying the cooker. He thinks I can’t cook. Well, I sure showed him. I baked a whole chicken with blackened crispy skin and served it with a lovely kale, navy bean, and butternut squash stew. It was delicious,
Then we had sex. A lot of it. All night of it.
He left early in the morning for Santa Barbara, giving me some much-needed rest and time to reflect. This was the first time in a long time that I did not have my daughter for three nights in a row. Tommy was planning on driving back down that night. I am still not sure about this. What it is that keeps me doing this. I feel driven to destroy.
The next day, it was a Saturday, we took the train downtown to the Arts District. I wanted to show him around some. He has bad feelings about LA. We ended up at a brewhouse and had three pints between us total. Without eating much. Then smoked a joint before hopping back on the train home.
Needless to say, I was WASTED. I could not keep my head up on the train and he had to hold me against him. He whispered in my ear for the entire ride but I only remember something about being “my man” and “always taking care of me.” I have a slide show of looking up and seeing the wary eyes of other travelers and feeling deep, deep shame. It had been a VERY LONG time since I was in a state like that and I DID NOT LIKE IT. I felt completely out of control and scared. I held on to him for dear life. I had to. I had no other choice. I had already made my series of “bad choices” leading me up to this point. Nothing to do but ride it out. We found my car by the station and he drove us home. I passed out right away. I have no idea what he did. But when I came to, I sure as hell missed sobriety.
Tsunamis of shame and fear cascaded over me. The drinking. The smoking. The HIM.
I knew, deep in my soul, that this was not the life for me. But I could not figure out how to get out of it. So I suffered in my anxious agony and tried to distract by joining him on the sofa for a Jim Jarmusch film and more and more and more pot. I wanted to forget.
The sex was not that good that night. He seemed nervous and clumsy. I was disassociated and annoyed. And yet, I did not ask him to leave. I endured. It is what I do best.
The next morning, as I was taking a shower, he went outside to smoke pot. I could smell it mixed in with the cigarrette smell and felt a deep repulsion well up in me. We had plans to visit Huntington Gardens and walk around that morning before he left for up North. I hated that he was stoned again. I knew, right then and there, that this whole “pot thing” with him, was not a casual thing. He was addicted to pot.
We went to the gardens anyway and I wanted to be anywhere but there. I cried the entire time. He asked why. I told him I did not see a future with us. I did not think he was responsible or capable enough. He said he heard me and understood and wanted to be the man I needed and that this was time for him to become HIM. He would quit the pot, and the cigs, he said. ASAP.
I said OKAY. And that I would talk to him later.
I panicked when my daughter finally came home. Relieved to be near her and also ashamed of my actions while she was away.
All I could think about was getting high. Up above it all.
Stay in the moment.