The Bloody Doors Off

I haven’t been myself the past few days.

Don’t know if it’s the increase in medication.

It just. Feels like a mask slipping off.

My face.

Which is ridiculous.

Because I’m not hiding anything.

Work this week, while not exactly the Nile River, still flowed downstream to my inbox.

Nothing’s happened to me. The family is fine.

Marlo is participating in Corona Cold Reads tonight. They’re reading part two of Angels in America. She’s loving the new normal. Many doors have opened for her.

The boy had violin practice earlier today.

There’s a second load of laundry in the dryer.

The rain’s stopped,, the clouds parting and the setting sun is shining through.

We ordered Greek food tonight.

I should be fine.

Should be.

Should.

Fine.

Why am I not fine?

I’m on increased anti-depressants.

I wrote that already.

I forgot I’d typed it.

It’s right there.

Black on white.

No, my memory’s fine.

It’s good.

I’m not forgetful.

If anything, I’ve been reliving vivid memories of late.

Okay, there have been a few strange dreams.

Nothing I’d like to journal here.

I will say.

It involved Christmas with my family; cousins, aunts, uncles, the lot.

Last December we had to Zoom our Christmas party.

I miss my family.

Even my father, with whom I share a very complicated relationship.

(No, I’m not going there tonight.)

(Yes, I remember the time I was two minutes behind his schedule and he drove off to get breakfast with my brother, leaving me behind.)

(Yes, if I brought it up now, he’d most likely apologize. And I’m not looking for an apology.)

(I’m looking for his approval.)

Fuck you, I’m not getting into this.

God, I miss writing stories.

All this self-reflection may be good for unburdening the soul, but I love writing stories. Especially ones that make people laugh.

I miss hearing crowds laugh.

Zoom has been a boon for getting my short plays out into the world, but I need an audience.

The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd.

I miss going to baseball games with my brother, Kevin.

I miss going to baseball games with my brother, Wayne, but he’s living in Alberta now.

So the commute would suck.

I’ve been to baseball games with my dad.

He always likes to leave early.

To escape traffic.

He always leaves early.

(He always leaves.)

I said, I’m not getting into this tonight.

(Besides, doofus. Mom left him, because he cheated.)

Between that, and the alcohol.

I once went to visit him at his apartment in Guildwood Park. Let myself in, I remember.

Found him passed out on the floor.

I freaked.

I was … 10? Definitely not more than 12. This was before high school.

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t call 911.

I called his girlfriend.

She suggested I make him coffee. (To sober up, I know now.)

I had no clue how to do it.

I boiled the water.

I poured it.

It was still water.

Apparently you need to put the instant coffee in the mug first.

He still drinks instant coffee.

To this day.

I love my coffee. But when he offers, I always decline.

Can’t stand the stuff.

Not sure if it’s the taste.

Or the memory.