Pretty in pink in Chelsea
Got up at 7 (oh, all I wanted to do was sleep a little longer), hustled to the L with three bags, got to my car to move it just in time, ended up at the cafe where I guess I was looking pretty listless because the counter girl asked me how I was doing with great sincerity.
“I’m ok,” I said. “Well. I’m tired. I’ve been couch-surfing for two weeks.” My voice sounded like it was someone else’s.
“Oh man, I have friends who do that all the time and they love it. I could never do it though. It would make me feel like I could never sleep.”
“That’s it exactly,” I said, and I was relieved that someone understood. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
No matter if I am completely alone in someone’s home, I just keep thinking that at any moment someone is going to walk through the door. The only time I feel alone is in my car and, strangely, at yoga class, even though I am in a room full of people.
And when I sleep I have vivid, disturbing, anxious dreams. Last week I had a dream that I watched a man get torn to shreds by a bobcat and then I held him as he bled to death. This morning I had the I-can’t-find-a-bathroom-and-when-I-do-it’s-disgusting-and-filthy dream, which I’ve had frequently in my life. There’s clearly some sort of inner self begging for mercy here.
I know that I did this to myself, by the way. You don’t need to point that out. I already know.
