Paging Dr. Freedman

By A. Grieme

"It all started to unravel the night she lost her dress in Connecticut. In fact, that was the first time I felt needed. Truly needed. Mental illness is a tricky thing. It manifests itself differently depending on decades. And if the mentally ill make it through their twenties medicated improperly, alive, and unscathed, it just becomes more compl

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Grieme Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958518687

A. Grieme

Diagnosed at 20-years-old with rapid-cycling bipolar disorder with schizoaffective episodic delusions, it was not until A. Grieme's mental tumble from-the-living a decade later that she began her healing voyage. A. Grieme is a writer, mother, educator, radio host and mental health awareness advocate who resides with her family in Northeastern Pennsylvania. She is the author of five books, a workbook and interactive course for those who live with the illness and/or care for loved ones who struggle. She chooses writing, educationand radio as her creative mediums to help.

Book preview

1973

Few of us have ever actually seen her face. Very rarely do seraphim ever reveal themselves as anything but remarkable beings of pure light, but the day that I was given the most challenging case of my career as a guardian, I saw her.

The light was soft like a NYC sunrise, and the city was alive with orbs of color, bustling among animals and people. I made haste, dressed in my best vintage Burberry wool suit, my favorite golden watch fob hung from my pocket. I came to the entrance, snuffed out my cigarette on my black Chuck Taylor, and dropped it into my shirt pocket; I cleared my throat and ran my hand through my salt-and-pepper chin-length hair. I opened the door and closed the city hum behind me. The foyer was white marble, with ancient columns, floor to ceiling; a stainless water wall lined with crisp green ivy hung from the glass ceiling, defying any architectural logic.

On the far right wall, beneath a water wall that fell into an infinity pool was a marble doorway. Above the entrance in glass lettering read AKASHIC INCORPORATED. I smoothed my suit, fluffed my wings, adjusted my bow tie, and made my way toward her office.

I sauntered down the corridor lined with stainless cubicles humming with ethereal beings clad in high-fashion corporate apparel, seamlessly completing tasks. In the last cubicle at the end of the hall, an androgynous, luminescent being looked up from their desk and smiled flirtatiously at me.

She is expecting you, they said, peering over cat-eye glasses. Would you care for a beverage while you wait?

N…no, thank you! I smiled nervously.

They sidled toward a door to open it, motioning for me to follow.

Please…have a seat.

I walked into a rounded white room; a sectional Moroccan red velvet couch and teak table rested on a burnt sienna shag carpet. A free-standing fireplace stood opposite the seating. Taking a seat on the velvet couch, I adjusted my pant leg, nervously checked my pocket watch, and leaned over to feel the smooth grain on the large table. I was startled by a long, spider-like woman’s leg that gently reached toward the fireplace and pressed a red ignition switch with a black stiletto. The fireplace ignited and I gasped.

Don’t be alarmed. Her voice smoldered and hissed behind long, shiny black hair and a deep purple veil.

I chose you to take on this case because of your bold nature, Gabriel. Where is it? She rested four of her eight delicate legs on the table between us. I was awestruck by her rare beauty.

I am s…s…so sorry, Mother Fate! Forgive me, I’m simply smitten with your—

With my eight legs. She dismissed my boyishness with a wave of her delicate hand and sighed the sound of silk falling onto warm skin.

I have a lot of weaving to do, Gabriel. Two legs aren’t enough. She smiled and pushed a large file across the table toward me.

I opened the ancient book and traced my finger across bold words on one of the first pages. Shaman, witch, queen, film actor… prostitute. She’s seasoned. I winked.

Mother Fate chuckled knowingly, smoothing her purple veil. Yes, Gabriel, she has been around…a highly evolved soul. Revealing ruby-red lips, she leaned into me, resting her veiled face on silk-gloved hands. I could see her coal-black irises.

She needs you, Gabriel. Many other lives depend upon her will to live.

It was difficult for me to pry my eyes away from her beautiful mouth, but I managed to take my wire spectacles from my wing, slip them on, and page through the first twenty years of Ana’s life, ponderously.

Complicated, I mused. Mother Fate flipped her velvet hair away from her cheek.

And that’s only the beginning…the really critical work will begin in her twenties. Keep reading.

While I read, she slowly leaned into me and whispered in my ear, making my wings shudder, You are a master puppeteer. I’ve seen your work, Gabriel. I hand-selected you for the task.

While I nervously pulled a cigarette from my wing, she slowly leaned back, crossed her eight legs with the grace of a Rockette, traced a finger over the file, and presented me with a lit match.

Oh…thank you. I didn’t even realize I took out a—Do you mind?

She slowly shook her head and handed me an ashtray.

I gingerly closed the file and fixed my gaze on her, trying to make out the expression in her coal-black eyes.

"What Earth year is it?

It’s 1973, Gabriel.

And the date?

She smiled. June 2, Gabriel. I’m sorry for the short notice, but we had some complications with the tapestry. You know the drill I presume?

I cleared my throat and gave her my best sideways smile, having done this before.

Yes, madam, I said, fumbling with my pocket watch.

She smiled, knowingly. Now…when you visit the Akashic Record library, Gabriel, ask the cherub on duty for the bottle labeled Ana Guida, June 4, 1973. Immediately report to Jersey Central Hospital, stamped beneath her name.

I nodded. She leaned into me, alarmingly close.

Any questions? Her voice lingered in the air. She brushed the hair away from my cheek.

No, madam.

She grinned and folded her hands in her lap.

Good luck.

Her voice was a whisper that dissipated into a blue orb of light. She vanished and I touched my face where she had been.

After retrieving the bottle labeled Ana Guida, June 4, 1973, I made my way down the hall donned in hospital scrubs past a very young Harry Guida bathed in blue TV light; it was the early morning news rerun of Channel 11 Live at 5. His face was framed with messy black hair and unkempt chops. Mouth agape, he snored shamelessly while young Peg Guida screamed, cursed, and pushed tirelessly in an adjacent room. Her long brown hair was piled atop of her head, stuck fast to her reddened, sweat-drenched face, twisted with pain, shock, and amazement. In the midst of all of the commotion, I slipped into delivery, uncorked the bottle, and watched Ana’s soul, light as springtime, nestle right into her little solar plexus as she emerged from the womb. I backed out, undetected, watching Peg’s softened face stare into little Ana as a doctor and a team of nurses revealed her sweet, perfect pink bundle.

Welcome, my friend. I exhaled and closed my eyes.

Gabriel

It all started to unravel the night she lost her dress in Connecticut. In fact, that was the first time I felt needed. Truly needed. Mental illness is a tricky thing. It manifests itself differently depending on decades. And if the mentally ill make it through their twenties medicated improperly, alive and unscathed, it just becomes more complicated. Many end their contracts there, but those who continue life beyond that decade have a mission, just one that can’t quite be grasped at such an early stage.

When Ana woke with a drug-and-alcohol-induced car crash in her brain, sipping mimosas with the girls to ease the physical unease the hilarity of her missing dress flipped a switch in her mind. That day, her amygdala went to sleep; she no longer felt rational fear. There was no caution left. Until then, despite her erratic, drug-riddled behavior, the prudent synapses still fired intermittently. But that day, she came undone. I didn’t even need to look to see it in her eyes. I felt it; I knew it was time. This was the knot in the tapestry…the one I had waited twenty-seven years to untangle. Ana had given up. I was officially on active duty.

* * *

Saturday, August 25, 2000

When Ana left Greenwich that evening, the late August air felt electric with possibility. She slid behind the wheel of her Volkswagen Fox and lit a cigarette. She was out of cream, so Abby spiked her coffee with Baileys for the ride. She headed down Interstate 95 South toward New York City. Jack, a long time boyfriend and failing relationship was playing at CBGB’s. Ana drove, as she didn’t have to be back to the Brewery in New Jersey to work until Monday.

Third Planet by Modest Mouse poured from the one working speaker as she turned off of First Avenue onto Bowery. She parked in the first available spot, ignoring the parking limit sign, fixed her lipstick in the rearview mirror and lit a smoke. She chugged the last of the cold Irish coffee, and opened the door to blinding headlights and a horn blaring from an SUV, jumped back in and slammed the door shut. The SUV clipped her left front fender, ripping it off like a scab. The driver stopped momentarily, then fled the scene.

Ana jumped out and grabbed her bumper off of the street; there were no witnesses. She thought that maybe it was a bad omen and she should just head back to New Jersey, then reconsidered. She looked back at her bumperless Volkswagen, and sauntered down to 315 Bowery.

***

Upstairs a CBGB’s Ultraspank thrashed loudly. It wasn’t her speed, but she entered the mess anyway to drink and soak in the frenetic energy. It was not the cool, dark feel of yesteryear… Ramones on stage, Patti Smith taking photos barefoot from the peripheral or something hip like that. It was a younger feel, more contrived like the overprocessed studio drivel that some dare call punk rock.

She hadn’t seen her boyfriend in a while; they were giving each other space. Her plan was to surprise him and his three-piece band; they were scheduled to play somewhere in the club. Basking in the drunken noise after a few beers and a shot or two of whiskey, she wandered through the smoky building searching aimlessly for his familiar face. Lost in the gaze of drunken kids, she worked her way outside and struck up a conversation with a blue-haired girl in a Sonic Youth t-shirt. Her mouth moved, but Ana was lost in thought looking beyond her into the downtown lights.

She spotted a pay phone a block away and made her way toward it to call up her best friend Briar who lived on Twenty-Eighth and Lexington with his boyfriend Cal. She hadn’t seen him in a while, and wanted to tell him about her missing bumper and her missing dress, when she was turned around by a shrill laugh.  Ana looked but could only see him, Jack, holding up a dirty-blonde dreadlocked hippie chick against the wall of CBGB’s tickling and kissing her exposed, taut and butterfly tattooed stomach. His guitar rested against the wall.

She walked toward them and studied the girl… writhing, cooing flirtatiously. Reaching against the wall, she grabbed his guitar, whirled it like a baseball bat and smacked his arm. He loosened his grip and the girl fell and ducked for cover while she smashed the sidewalk next to them. The neck of the guitar snapped, and metal strings undulated like bridges in earthquakes.

"Didn’t expect to see me? So this is relationship space, huh?" Ana ranted.

My guitar… you crazy bitch!  Jack was furious.

A crowd gathered, and I, dressed as a street kid, pulled her away from Jack and the girl. I couldn’t hold her. Ana struck a sign with the guitar and threw it into the street, broken.

She stormed back toward her car, dissolved in tears, flailing her arms in anger. Her car wasn’t there. The sign said two hour parking. It was gone.

***

She sat on the curb and smoked, too drunk to feel remorse, and too imbalanced to move forward. I rolled up to her in a cab, rolled down the window and asked if she needed a ride. I knew she was pondering going to Briar’s place to stay until she sobered up and could find her car, but something across the street caught her eye and she was gone; there was no stopping her.

Free will is a tricky thing, especially when trying to help someone with no stop button. Add intoxicated, imbalanced, and unwanted, it then becomes a game of chance. I had a job to do, and Ana was not cooperating.

***

Who wants to karaoke? she said, sidling up to them. There were two Italian boys from Paramus, a blue-eyed and brunette boy visiting from Rhode Island School of Design graduate school, and his equally attractive twin sister, an NYU graduate student. Ana had a captive audience and recounted the events of the evening. The sister gave her a sideways glance, so she took the crumpled CBGB’s flyer from her purse. They piled into another cab and headed to Arlene’s Grocery for a karaoke party.

The Rhode Island boy snatched the flyer out of her hands, smoothed it on his lap and rolled a joint on it; his sister sprinkled on some leftover powder from a bag onto the concoction. He rolled it tightly, licked it, and nestled it behind his ear. Ana stopped the cab across from 95 Stanton Street and they scraped together money for the fare. RISD boy tapped on the joint behind his ear, and they disappeared around a corner to smoke.

***

An Asian tranny in a red sequin gown basked in the applause for her Bad Girls by Donna Summer performance while Ana bought a round of shots of Jack Daniels for her new friends. She slowly melted into stoned oblivion and watched from the corner as the RISD boy pulled the shot glass into his mouth, hands behind his back, beckoning her to do the same. They relaxed into each other’s laughter and made their way to the karaoke stage.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I lost my dress in Connecticut last night.  She chose a song from the roster and belted out Joplin’s version of Bobby McGee to the applause of the crowd. RISD boy followed with a flat Joy Division classic.

Love… love will tear us apart, again.  She fell hard; that’s all it took.

***

When she opened her eyes, she was pressed against a shoulder. There was a car crash in her frontal lobe. The light seeped in from outside a window on a bus to Rhode Island the next afternoon. She had no purse, no car keys, and one shoe. She searched and felt a debit card, some crumpled cash, her license and a half-smoked joint in her pocket.

She refocused and made out a sign for 95 North followed by another: Providence Rhode Island, 20 miles. Closing her eyes to the sunlight, memories surfaced like shards of glass—girl against the wall. A smashed guitar. A bumper in her back seat. A cab driver.  Her mouth on a glass shot. Making out in a stickered bathroom stall. Dancing with strangers. Ducking into a piss-stench alley, searching for her clothing. Missing someone. Port Authority diesel and filth - snorting something off someone’s arm.

Next stop, Saunderstown, Rhode Island, the bus driver muttered.

Ana didn’t know where she was. She was coming down hard and just wanted to be at home hugging her dog Sherman.

***

She gingerly rifled through the drooling RISD boy’s pockets and grabbed a cellophane bag with a bump of whatever powder they were snorting hours before. She scored a piece of gum, took off her one shoe and stuffed it between the seats whispering So long.  She slipped the half-smoked joint into his limp fist before sidling barefoot off the bus.

The guy behind the coffee kiosk outside the bus terminal asked where her shoes had gone.

Forgot them, she said and counted the money in her pocket.

***

Ana was unaware at first that she was crying and laughing simultaneously when she asked a woman and her daughter how to get to the beach. The woman pointed to a Saunderstown cab, clutching her child closely. Ana knocked on a cab window and asked the driver for a ride.

To the beach, please. What day is it? she asked.

He gave her the once-over. Her blonde hair was haphazardly knotted into a ponytail, exposing her sullied freckles and old mascara.

It is Monday, August 25th.

What? Afternoon?  She smacked my forehead, cringing from the pain.

12:30 p.m., he nodded.

Fuck… I’m supposed to be at work.

Long night, huh?  Where’s work? He laughed.

New Jersey. She peeked at him in the rearview mirror, wiping the crusty corners of her mouth. Through tears she saw a pay phone a block away from the beach.

Drop me off here, please. She reached into her pocket and grabbed some cash.  The cellophane bag fell onto the floor and his eyes followed.

Are you okay, Miss? Do you need help?

I’m fine, she snapped, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She snatched up the bag, walked on the hot sidewalk to the phone booth and picked up the receiver.

Collect call, please. She punched in her work number.

Hello… Brewery, my boss answered.

DON’T ACCEPT, just LISTEN. It’s ANA. I just woke up in Rhode Island… I don’t know what happened. I…—

Yes, I’ll accept.  Her boss took the call. Ana?

Hi! Oh my GOD thank you, yes! Hi Chris… I just woke up on a bus to Rhode Island, I…—

What? He exhaled loudly. "Are you okay?"

Well no, I mean yes! I…— She laughed and cried, unable to make sense. He cut her off.

Are you high again? he whispered.

No… no Chris, I’m just…— she squeezed the bag.

You’re fired is what you are, he sighed. Get your shit together. (click)

No Chris! Chris?— Ana slammed the phone down continuously and sat down in the booth, resting her head on her knees. Her head pounded and she reached for the bag, turning it inside out to snort whatever was there, then licked the plastic clean. She took the phone from the cradle when I walked toward the booth.

"Are you using the phone?" I asked.

Her eyes crossed and she saw two of me. She said something, hung onto the phone like a life vest and sunk into darkness. I watched the empty bag fly away, and made provisions.

Ana

Agust 29, 2000 I think…

Dear Jesse,

You’ve probably heard already from my parents, your mom…someone. I’m in Rhode Island. Well, on Rhode Island, at Eleanor’s house. It’s a big house, Jesse…284 or so beds. I’m pretty sure I came here with a RISD graduate student with blue eyes, dark features…who I was going to marry. Handsome guy, but not the brightest.

Somehow I ended up here… not sure what happened to him. And my car was swallowed up by NYC, I think.

I don’t remember much, but I know I am supposed to be at work in New Jersey. Nurse Kelsey waddles in twice a day with little blue and pink imagination slayers. I don’t know if Dr. Freedman knows where I am. Not sure if he cares. But I have this typewriter at my disposal, when I can move my fingers.

You were right. I am ashamed that I am 27 years old and living above my parent’s garage. It IS pathetic. Thank you for pointing that out.

But looking out the window…beyond the compound, Rhode Island is beautiful; I wish you were here…and we were at the beach. We are always happy when we are at the beach.

Love,

Ana

* * *

September 6, 2000

Dear Jesse,

So I am more cognizant now, despite the Nurse Kelsey cocktail. I am no longer doing the Thorazine shuffle. I don’t know why I was so overmedicated; it is not like I am any threat to anyone other than myself. By the way, it is called tardive dyskinsesia…that state. The weird tongue sometimes out-of-mouth state. Sleepwalking awake. I know you’ve seen it. It is apparently to protect the patients. Bullshit. It is yet another sick injustice…a control ploy. A way to dumb down the mentally ill so that they can be dealt with like a herd of cattle.

I have been cheek(ing) the Seroquel/ Thorazine combination at night. Fuck them. Then I crush them and hide them in my mattress. In morning, they watch me like a hawk when I take my cocktail. They also do random mouth checks where they finger sweep for pills.

I have to be careful though; there are cameras everywhere. They can probably read what I’m typing to you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wiretapped this room. Maybe the RISD guy was part of this. I wonder if he lured me up here so that they could throw me away? Why Rhode Island?

Perhaps Dr. Freedman has something to do with this; he was NOT pleased that I stopped taking Lithium. I mean what the fuck did he expect? He told me that in clinical tests…Lithium mutates frogs and unborn children. Why would I take that? That is ALL I could picture! Plus…it made my hair fall out and my skin break out in cysts…or something. Horrible…and ten times worse for my self-esteem. Fuck Lithium. I’d rather swing like a pendulum.

And I have continually tried to explain to the psychiatrist that I am not an addict on top of it all, despite how I arrived here.

Me: Honestly, I am a very smart woman, Dr. Weinstein. I was simply partying for the sake of tying one on!

Shrink: Dr. Weinstein cleared her throat and peered over her glasses at me.

Ana, intelligence has nothing to do with this. You were self-medicating. You are lucky that you are alive. You historically abuse drugs when you stop taking your meds. I’ve spoken, at length, to Dr. Freedman. Whatever.

My parents came up to see me the other day. They weren’t even angry that my car was impounded in NYC or that I was in a hospital in Rhode Island. And when I asked if I could please ride home with them, they told me I couldn’t. I could tell that it killed my father to leave me there, but my mother has more practice with being the bad guy. I waited until they left and I heard the door at the end of the corridor close, then cried like a colicky baby.

I look at the painted cinder block wall beneath the textured drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting. Sometimes I get lost in the strange cracks in the texture. They look like a magnified imprint of skin on a piece of tape. The mosaic changes shape depending on the light from the window, but today is cloudy. Not much has changed here, except me. I’m ready to go home and try this again, but I don’t know if I’ll be welcome. They brought me my green backpack, and all the letters that I wrote when I left teaching. There are a ton written to you; maybe one day I will send them. My mom thought they would give me inspiration. Inspiration for what…I’m not sure. Honestly, I just feel like I am backpedaling.

I can’t believe that wasn’t even a year ago…

I can’t believe I fell, again.

I swear things were better.

I just want to leave.

I miss Sherman.

I miss you.

Love,

Ana

* * *

September 21, 2000

Dear Abby,

It is your birthday! I hope you’re celebrating. Remember when I lost my dress in Connecticut a month ago? That did happen, right? Well, I haven’t been home since. In fact, I ended up in Rhode Island. Yup. I took Route 95 North from Connecticut…instead of South.

I wish it were that simple. It’s not.

So…

I did, in fact, go to CBGB’s after I left you and Roxy. I also had the bumper of my car ripped off by a hit-and-run. And I did, in fact, get really drunk and smashed a guitar.

I did, in fact, meet total strangers, got really high, and sang karaoke at Arlene’s Grocery.

It is the rest that I am trying to piece together. By the rest I mean, how I woke in a Rhode Island State Hospital. I know I woke on a bus, 20 miles from Providence. I know I lost a shoe. I know I was with one of the strangers. And I know that I got high, again.

(sigh)

I do remember Greenwich, for the most part. That night, I wore a black cocktail dress that my mom had given me. Abby was stunning in a bohemian black silk sarong and Roxanne, radiant in something red. Abby took us to a French bistro in downtown Greenwich where we were drenched in the shallow society conversation that floated around us. We nibbled cassoulet, quiche Lorraine and sipped Chateau Margeaux like queens. After our second bottle of Bordeaux, we decided that we needed to find some live music.

We found a club where we danced and laughed, and flirted deliciously with strange Greenwich men who lit our cigarettes. I spotted a balding man in the crowd wearing some sort of ascot and moved toward him. In my twisted mind, he was the cabbie from the movie; sheer poetic perfection amidst the superficial young crowd. I was drawn to his confidence, and vaguely recollect sitting on the steps and talking to him in about contemporary Georgian architecture, like I knew anything about it. I half-listened to his theories about what makes good art and working relationships. He was a metal sculptor I think? Or he was full of shit and just really flattered that I was at least 20 years his junior and blindly… flagrantly hanging on to his every contrived word. He was there with a much younger friend, maybe lover with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a nautical themed button down.

Would you all like to come over for some champagne and skinny-dipping?

Abby laughed and handed Roxanne her car keys. Roxanne shook her head in amazement. The ride was a blur, and the rest is a series of film clips.

* * *

Medium Shot: Abby took four or five bottles of champagne from the wine cellar, and we polished them off, F. Scott Fitzgerald style.

Long Shot: Roxanne went to bed.

* * *

Thankfully, we got to a point in the early morning hours where Abby and I sobered up enough to boot them out of the pool house.

* * *

Medium Shot: Morning, over mimosas, ibuprofen and cigarettes, we sat around her wing of the main house and tried to recount our evening.

Long Shot: Abby and I walked up to the pool house to tidy up and discard the evidence.

Close-Up: My shoes sat untouched, but my black cocktail dress was missing.

Extreme Close-Up of smeared eye makeup and a twisted expression: Those bastards took my dress.

Close-Up of Abby, mouth wide with laughter, clapping her hands: A souvenir!

Medium Shot of Abby, handing me my shoes:They must’ve been angry that we kicked them out, blue-balled and drunk.

So here I am…to your North—

Love,

Ana

* * *

October 17, 2000

Dear Jesse,

So I made a friend here. Alexis. She’s cool…loves music and is studying medicine but not sure if she is going to go on to med school. Her heart is conflicted.

She is a pianist like Dr. Freedman; her left and right brains are both working in her favor. I told her she needs to meet Doc Freedman. He would give her sound advice about whether or not to join the ranks of the world of medicine. I think maybe music is Dr. Freedman’s only escape sometimes. Imagine having to deal with the likes of me on a daily basis? Chemically imbalanced confusion? I don’t blame you for not calling me.

She is currently an orderly, probably our age. We play cards sometimes. She introduced me to Kid A…Radiohead’s latest album that was just released and loaned me an iPod to listen to it on my own. The album is transcendent. If I dare make the comparison, it is undoubtedly Radiohead’s Dark Side of the Moon. It is getting me through this, Jesse. Perhaps I can finally come out of this on the other side…wherever that may be.

Love,

Ana

October 27, 2000

Dear Briar,

My parents brought me my backpack, full of letters that I wrote to work my way out of an episode. The first one I pulled out of the bag was the last letter I wrote before I ended up here. By HERE…I mean another hospital. I wrote this right before your birthday:

August 1, 2000—Passage

Dear Briar,

Please don’t take offense to the amount of time that it has taken me to write another letter to you. In fact, consider it a good thing! My time has been occupied by slinging hash and microbrews, reconciling differences between new friends (keywords: new friends). I’m socializing! My self-absorption index has dwindled significantly, and I have jumped into real conversations and real laughs with real people…

I’m lying, again. GODDAMMIT! I am no longer capable of even being a good storyteller. Gone. I am simply a shadow of myself.

I will be thinking of you on your birthday, Bri. I’ll be wishing that I can call you and sing Happy Birthday, Mr. President Norma Jean style, just to hear your sweet voice.

Wishing I can laugh with you…

in a Lower East Side Café, under

the Manhattan moon.

Wishing to see your eyes

crinkle, irises brighten

to ocean blue with

joy tears.

Wishing to see your

hand linger around

your mouth

when you speak.

Wishing I could stumble

home with you, safe inside

several aged curry cabs, washed

by city light.

Wishing to wake under

clean, white sheets, cool…

staring through bamboo

blinds at the brick

backside of 28th and Lexington.

Praying for ibuprofen to be

in stumbling reach.

But the thing is, I’m so tired of wishing, wasting, wanting, hurting. In fact, I think I am actually content with being discontent. Besides, my attempts to be discontented by lack of contentment have been, thus far, futile.