Camouflage in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

I lit the scented candle on my desk. Pipe tobacco and patchouli. The only scented candles I owned smelled like different men that I’ve loved in my life. I took a look around and observed how little I’d gotten done despite excuses made to people who wanted to see me.

I’d blown off the teen actor two more times using cleaning as an excuse. I’d politely explained to him that I don’t fuck strangers as an excuse but after I said it, I knew it was more than that: it had become fact. I even ignored Eric’s calls inviting me to do whatever I wanted. I kept my social media light and popular, filling it with jokes and evenly-spaced witticisms.

I spent the day re-reading a mystery series that I’d read more than five times in the last six months. The books completely suspended my mind from thinking or feeling about myself and instead allowed me to think and feel with the main character. 900 pages on a Saturday wasn’t a bad way of avoiding. I desperately wanted a drink and thought of the full bottles of vodka, absinthe and other assorted spirits on my kitchen counter, but my trip yesterday to happy hour with a co-worker had spun into a long afternoon of drunkenness.

We had gone to the restaurant where Nikki, an old acquaintance of mine, was the manager. She picked up the tab for my drinks and offered to visit with me, but the restaurant was too busy for that and she politely invited me back on a slower day (“Tuesday afternoons are best”). After that I went and played pool with this guy I know, Neil. For beating him twice I won two lines of cocaine. The first time I met Neil he had tried to fight me because he insisted I wasn’t cheating. The truth is, Neil played fast and loose with the rules of pool, spouting out crazy rules that I refused to follow because I strictly adhered to those that I learned playing tournaments in the nineties.

I liked being around Nikki and Neil because they had no clue. I was able to hide my grief from them, and part of me wants that. Just like the camouflaged Facebook and Instagram posts. Just like refusing to answer Eric’s calls.

The last time I had sorrow like this I had to hide it and deal with it privately. I couldn’t talk about Joe’s death or even acknowledge we’d had a relationship. My feelings were locked in the echo-chamber of my mind and I knew that there was little that could be done about it.

But that isn’t this situation. I should be working through my pain somehow. My mother is planning a huge memorial and I actually found myself envying her. She can tangibly create something with her grief that can facilitate the grieving of others. I wondered if I’d been unduly harsh on her all these years.

There’s nothing holding me back now. No more secrets to be kept. I should say it. Out loud.

I’m hurting.