Hopita (hopita) wrote,

Last lingering thoughts before bed

Friday night and this week is finally over. I remember when August 1995 finally ended, I went out back to the alley behind Facets, took the "August 1995" sheet from my desk calendar, and lit the fucker on fire. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Of course we all know that that did little good; by the end of September 1995 I was starting on heroin, and well on my way to making a gigantic mess of my life. But it was a symbolic gesture of significance, and it stays with me still.

I have such love and awe for those rare individuals who show tenderness and compassion to my scars -- my literal scars. To Mothermoonbeam, when she painted the henna on my hand. To unixd0rk, who once told me how proud he was of me for all that I'd overcome. To n0thingman, who always had such acceptance for my indiscretions, both large and small.

I was looking at my scars this evening.

I once thought about getting tattoos over my scars (note: this is when I only had them on my arms, not my hands). My then-boyfriend said no, that I still needed the scars as they were. On Monday night, asleep in unixd0rk's bed, I had a dream that I got a new tattoo. I don't think I shared this dream with him or with anyone, as Tuesday morning, everything went to Hell and that kind of preempted everything else. But I'm sharing it now. Black ink, in a design that I can't quite recall, on the upper right side of my back. Upon waking, I wondered if it was time. I got my nose pierced for the second time in the fall of 1999, when I was having some sort of fight with n0thingman, because I realized that I had had a dream the night before that I had two noserings. This was my very last body modification, if anyone out there is keeping track.

Tonight when I got home, I printed out all of my LiveJournal stuff from this past week and taped it into my paper journal, in large part because I'd managed to write so very little about last night, and I didn't want to forget that experience. I have about a dozen pages left in this notebook, and I feel pretty ready to be done with it. It's hard -- I'm ready for the clean slate that a new journal will offer (Susan started the next one in my pile, and I'm glad for that -- I'm a big fan of hers), but I'm also somewhat sad because there really were a lot of happy moments in this current journal.

I wanted to share one in particular, a bit bittersweet now, but it's been rattling around in my head:

Two Saturdays ago (I think), driving around with unixd0rk after having had lunch with n0thingman at Quiet Storm. We'd stopped at Kohli's for henna (which we've still never used) and food, and, as I drove, he fed me samosas. It's a tiny glimpse, a moment, but one that stands out as a time that I felt really happy.

The joy of life is slowly starting to return to me, I think. Tonight at work I danced a little, I sang a little. "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," which for years made me think of _aqualung_, tonight made me think of unixd0rk, and it made me kind of wistful.

Also tonight at work, our security guard, Tim, busted a shoplifter. It was a total floorshow. I was outside, eating dinner, talking with Vema, and out comes this man, with Tim right behind him. Next thing we know, the man takes off running, and Tim goes right after him, yelling for him to stop. They were running through the street and yes, there was traffic -- they both nearly got clipped by one car in particular -- but before the man even reached the corner, Tim had him cornered against a wall. The man swung at Tim, and Tim responded by spraying him with mace. Got him down, got him cuffed, and took him inside, and all with Co-op shoppers just standing there with their jaws hanging open.

And that's it, I suppose. Tomorrow I have plans with n0thingman, and then Sunday is MAD Day at The Co-op, which is always a guaranteed distraction from everything else in life. I have one cigarette left in this pack, and we'll see if tomorrow I'm able to repost that quitmeter, and start it back at zero.

And then next Sunday ... well, next Sunday is the fifteen year anniversary of my accident. I'm already sort of working up a post on that inside my brain. Many of you know the story; some still don't. I'll see how well I do at explaining the ways in which that day divided my life into "Before" and "After."
Tags: alan, august 1995, chicago, crime, depression, eating, eefc, facets, heartbreak, heroin, love, maria, orange mike, quiet storm, steven, the van accident, tim

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