9:29 p.m. - October 13, 2002
One day the sun will warm, not burn, my skin
Tomorrow morning I have to call Barbara The Editor and let her know I'm behind schedule again. I've been avoiding her calls and emails titled Progress Report? simply because there is no change.
How do I tell her I'm scared without seeming ridiculous and provincial? How do I tell her that I look at my pages and notes and feel an overwhelming sensation of dread as mistakes loom in neon and the overall dissatisfaction makes me nauseous to even think about the book? Thousands of people have already purchased the book even before it's done and I can think of nothing more awful than that.
I cannot merely strive for perfection; the book must be perfect.
A woman who attended the Florida conference calls me brilliant in the organization newsletter to be mailed at the end of the month. She and the others like her see only the confidence and arrogance I project on dwindling reserves and there isn't enough left to carry on. I don't know what to do.
Bathsheba, do you remember how I was before the poetry book was released? Remind me of the jitters and confidence and the elation afterwards, and perhaps I can magnify that a thousand times to give me the boost I need now.
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TJ called today to inform me he's frustrated and upset at the lack of progress on the Jason's Gay front, specifically the no-sex front and I was cold as I pictured him in the residents' lounge between caseloads, scrubs wrinkled and messy; we won't be seeing each other again soon.
The women I've dated as an adult have been teachers; the men have been a government agent and a soon-to-be doctor. Perhaps I reach too high with either gender. It's time to stop reaching, period.
Disappointed, not upset. Worried, not relieved. Resigned, not surprised. Angry-at-self.
Common sense says it's time to focus on the self. To run with the counseling spirit and discover the squeezable invisible Jason and renew confidence and the little joys that originate in solid friendships borne of happiness but the truth is that I'm an emotional child, immature, incapable of relationships. That's what it comes down to: I find perverse satisfaction and trust with men yet cannot distinguish between hostile intentions and genuine intimacy, whereas with women the spark of being alive was like a match near a window, uncertain.
I feel like a failure professionally where is the book? socially you never go out anymore emotionally everything.
