7:32 p.m. - January 13, 2005
Overslept: At 5:05 this morning my sister yelled from the hallway that the flight had better be for the p.m. and not the a.m. or my ass should be running. I did - into the shower, from shower to ironing board, to the car, to the terminal. Flight departs at 6:27 and I arrived at 5:55 and ran into the security line - not to the end of it, but literally into the line itself. The first time I ever saw a line at San Jose and this one stretched all the way past baggage claim. By 6:20 I was still in line moving closer and watching more-hurried or more-irritated people approach the Filipina security guard and express sundry urgency tales, only to have her shriek Nothing I can do for you! End of line! while the broadcast system announced Final Call for United Flight 1236. At 6:25 I walked through the metal detector, grabbed my shoes, belt, laptop, backpack, and carry-on and ran to Gate C-2, which they closed behind me. Put on my shoes and belt while people watched and smiled. Relief!
Until Chicago, where it was snowing. My hour layover disappeared, diminished with each circuit the plane made over the airport waiting for permission to land. Once down, hustled from B to C terminal and arrived to my gate and into the plane. And there we sat waiting for permission to depart. And sat. And sat. Finished my book (The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green) and still sat. Arrived in DC nearly two hours delayed, so I missed my pick-up and had to arrange transport to the hotel myself but here I am, sitting with the balcony door wide open and feeling downright toasty.
This is not a journal or diary; it's become a way for me to hold myself at bay. Just as I talk about nothing to people, here I talk about nothing simply to fill the quiet spaces. It is tiring.
It's been a hard week for me: Monday morning heard from another therapist who feels it best to refer me to yet another. It's like a sucker punch to the gut whose recovery is a feeble thank you, I understand but I don't, I wanted to ask what is it about me that discourages a professional, wanted to tell him that whatever words he says, please don't say them so damn clinically, don't surround them in antiseptic nothingness as if the words don't have an impact, because they do. It's a quietness, a stare through the window where one perceives just half the face reflected, a loneliness that eats you away and continues unchecked, a worthlessness that seeps through skin.
Here until Sunday morning.