Thursday, September 29, 2011

Awful

Oh, I'm at the computer: I'm at the computer, thinking about bed. But I can't go back to bed yet, because I have a feldenkrais appointment. Feldenkrais makes me feel better than bed anyway. But, I have to get there: a mile walk, which sounds exhausting but okay too because at least at the other end I get to lie down on the feldenkrais table and drift away, and then once we’re done maybe I'll feel better. For a few minutes, on my walk home, until I get to the point where I'm too exhausted but I'm still walking, and then at home either I'll feel better or worse, or better, and then worse, or better and then worse and then better, and then I'll probably be back at the computer, thinking about bed but not in the same way because then it will actually be at the end of the day, or close to it anyway, although these days the whole day just feels like the end of the day or the end of the world or just the end.

Speaking of exhaustion, the doctor wants to talk to me about the heavy metal test results, but I don't want to come in until the second test comes back from the lab, because otherwise it's just two appointments for no reason. Did I mention talking to my mother the other day? I'm sure I did, but I didn’t want to talk about it. When was it when she offered to pay for the doctor again? A few months ago – she didn't want me to worry, that's what she said. I don't need her money to pay for the doctor, but it does help. Except then there she was on the phone, all stressed out because of one bill. One bill for an hour appointment, and a vitamin D shot. Actually it was a half-hour appointment, and a vitamin D shot, and maybe I was there for 40 minutes, but definitely not more, so they shouldn’t have billed me for more than 45 minutes at the most, but I didn't tell my mother that. It's always the same story with her – she offers something, takes it back. Still, I want her to offer, want her to follow through, so then I keep getting caught in the same place.

After I got off the phone with her the other day, I started thinking maybe I should just stop taking any of her offer, if it always leads to the same place where she gets all frantic about nothing. Gets all frantic and starts saying the same stupid things, like she wants me to talk to some relative who's a doctor – or no, that was the original offer, a while back, and I even said yes, but then I did mention that, since he would be taking a detailed medical history, I would talk about being sexually abused, I just wanted her to know that and then she didn't want me to talk to that doctor any more.

This time, she wants my doctor to talk to this doctor, as if already learned. I say. I've already tried the conventional pharmaceutical route, I mean I took those anti-parasite medication and everything has gotten worse. What is this random conventional medical doctor going to offer. He's not random, my mother says. No, I say, I'm not interested. Here you are getting stressed out about paying for the doctor, and then you're offering to pay for something that doesn't even make sense. At least the stock market is up, she says. And then it will be down and then it will be up and then it will be down – you can't tie your emotions to the stock market.

My mother changes the subject, I can always rely on her for that. She read a review of Justin Torres's book in the New York Times. It was awful, she says. What do you mean? She reads me the headline – can you believe it, she says. You mean the way they write, I say – because it's all positive, and that’s the only thing that matters, a New York Times review can make someone's career – I mean his book has been reviewed everywhere, literally everywhere. It's awful, my mother says, and reads the beginning to me again. I've already read it – I'm fascinated by this tiny book filled with so much that matters that somehow has become a bestseller, reviewed in every big-name publication from the New York Times Book Review to the Washington Post to Forbes to the Onion. The whole machine is working for this queer book. The review my mother is reading sounds like all the reviews -- glowing, but not particularly insightful.

My mother says why didn’t the New York Times publish your review? Because I don't have those kind of connections. What does he have, this reviewer? I don't know, what does it say about him? He teaches writing at the New School in New York. Maybe that's what it is – he's a professor; he lives in New York; he knows someone at the New York Times. It's just awful, my mother says – maybe I wouldn’t think that if I hadn’t read your review, or gone to his reading.

It's just awful – does my mother really say that four times? She's annoyed at something, everything, I can't place it. Maybe we could bond over this, I mean if it wasn't just her way of changing the subject, her way of trying to connect after shutting me down, yes I'm that fragile – I'm already so distant from everything, everything except the way I feel in this chair like my head is gone and I can barely speak and I’ll never get up. Except I will. And then I will. And then I will. And I don't know if it's worth it.

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