"Nothing is real, but I'm flying, crying..."
Everyone loves a sad song now and then. If you were to ask Greg one song he never wanted to hear again, I'm sure it would be "Storybook" by Linda Eder:
"Where is my storybook ending?
Why does my golden pretending,
leave me with nothing to hold
but my dreams."
I was still having random crying attacks. I was always so scared and sad. No one can say I didn't try. I decided to see a psychologist. In our intital talks he concluded that I was bipolar and highly prone to addiction. I was put on yet another medication called Depacote. I walked this path alone. To Greg, this was my problem. Looking back, if only Greg had taken my hand, hugged me, something, to show his support. He was as afraid of this as I was. It was something he didn't understand. At times, the medication made me stutter. I hated what I had become: weak, sad and hopeless. I lost interest in just about everything except drinking and running from bar to bar in the Quarter.
It was the week of "Art Against AIDS." I was quite resourceful in getting some great items for the silent auction, everything from local artwork to a "Will and Grace" script signed by the entire cast. The volunteer assigned to help me with the silent auction (I'll call her Meg) was pushy, rude and a downright bitch. This event would be bring me to the brink. On top of everything, I told Greg I was moving out.
The night before the event, I would not leave my NO/AIDS office until 3:30 a.m. preparing bid sheets. I had to be at the venue the next morning at 8 a.m. I drove up to the house crying and suddenly was hit with a tremendous pain in my chest. It had to be tension. I had never felt anything like this before. I managed to get myself to the guest bedroom and swallowed some muscle relaxants left over from my back surgery. I also took 18 mg. of Klonopin. I laid down in the bed and every move I made was painful, it even hurt to breathe. Greg was sound asleep in his room.
I overslept the next morning and jumped right out of bed and got to the Contemporary Arts Center at 7:45. The pain was still present in my chest, but not as bad as the night before. Nothing would go right this day. It rained, I got a parking ticket while unloading materials, the event volunteer was bossing me and other volunteers around. She was becoming quickly unpopular. The donated table coverings arrived and did not extend to the floor. "Meg" went off on me in front of everyone: "We can't use these! They are unacceptable!" I reminded her that they were donated and that we could simply move them forward as the tables were not round and the presentation would be fine. She snapped back: "I'm calling your boss and someone I know that can get us better tablecoths." This is the part where I get respect. I yanked the phone out of her hand and slammed it down:
"Meg, if you want to whip out a credit card and pay for better tablecloths, by all means do so. the Task Force welcomes your kind donation. Now, if I could kindly remind you that are a volunteer for this event, not my superior. If you are not here with a good heart and good intentions, the core qualities of a good volunteer, I think you should leave. We WILL use the donated tablecloths. Have I made myself clear on all this?"
The large ballroom was completely silent. "Meg" backed down and walked outside for a cigarette. This would not be our last encounter. All the other volunteers did their best to look busy, but when "Meg" was out of listening range, they all applauded. I just grinned and continued to work with the infamous tablecloths.
Everyone involed in set-up did an excellent job. Everything began falling into place as all the food, lighting and alcohol people started to arrive. I headed home to change. For some reason, I needed Greg now more than ever. He had planned to attend the event with a co-worker. I raced home hoping to catch him.
"There is only
one perfect storybook ending.
That is the end of pretending.
That is the moment I say:
Love me now."
"Where is my storybook ending?
Why does my golden pretending,
leave me with nothing to hold
but my dreams."
I was still having random crying attacks. I was always so scared and sad. No one can say I didn't try. I decided to see a psychologist. In our intital talks he concluded that I was bipolar and highly prone to addiction. I was put on yet another medication called Depacote. I walked this path alone. To Greg, this was my problem. Looking back, if only Greg had taken my hand, hugged me, something, to show his support. He was as afraid of this as I was. It was something he didn't understand. At times, the medication made me stutter. I hated what I had become: weak, sad and hopeless. I lost interest in just about everything except drinking and running from bar to bar in the Quarter.
It was the week of "Art Against AIDS." I was quite resourceful in getting some great items for the silent auction, everything from local artwork to a "Will and Grace" script signed by the entire cast. The volunteer assigned to help me with the silent auction (I'll call her Meg) was pushy, rude and a downright bitch. This event would be bring me to the brink. On top of everything, I told Greg I was moving out.
The night before the event, I would not leave my NO/AIDS office until 3:30 a.m. preparing bid sheets. I had to be at the venue the next morning at 8 a.m. I drove up to the house crying and suddenly was hit with a tremendous pain in my chest. It had to be tension. I had never felt anything like this before. I managed to get myself to the guest bedroom and swallowed some muscle relaxants left over from my back surgery. I also took 18 mg. of Klonopin. I laid down in the bed and every move I made was painful, it even hurt to breathe. Greg was sound asleep in his room.
I overslept the next morning and jumped right out of bed and got to the Contemporary Arts Center at 7:45. The pain was still present in my chest, but not as bad as the night before. Nothing would go right this day. It rained, I got a parking ticket while unloading materials, the event volunteer was bossing me and other volunteers around. She was becoming quickly unpopular. The donated table coverings arrived and did not extend to the floor. "Meg" went off on me in front of everyone: "We can't use these! They are unacceptable!" I reminded her that they were donated and that we could simply move them forward as the tables were not round and the presentation would be fine. She snapped back: "I'm calling your boss and someone I know that can get us better tablecoths." This is the part where I get respect. I yanked the phone out of her hand and slammed it down:
"Meg, if you want to whip out a credit card and pay for better tablecloths, by all means do so. the Task Force welcomes your kind donation. Now, if I could kindly remind you that are a volunteer for this event, not my superior. If you are not here with a good heart and good intentions, the core qualities of a good volunteer, I think you should leave. We WILL use the donated tablecloths. Have I made myself clear on all this?"
The large ballroom was completely silent. "Meg" backed down and walked outside for a cigarette. This would not be our last encounter. All the other volunteers did their best to look busy, but when "Meg" was out of listening range, they all applauded. I just grinned and continued to work with the infamous tablecloths.
Everyone involed in set-up did an excellent job. Everything began falling into place as all the food, lighting and alcohol people started to arrive. I headed home to change. For some reason, I needed Greg now more than ever. He had planned to attend the event with a co-worker. I raced home hoping to catch him.
"There is only
one perfect storybook ending.
That is the end of pretending.
That is the moment I say:
Love me now."
posted by Matthew Cortez at 10/22/2005 02:15:00 PM
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