Heaven knows I'm miserable now

Between the "Am I an Alcoholic?" quiz-taking, the late night calls from panicked and insane foster families, horrible self-inflicted hair cuts, and crying jags, I was too busy to notice my gradual descent into moppiness.

People in my life sent up flares. Friend #1 suggested that I quit my job--"It's killing you"--while #2 told me that I should "um, take more walks? You might be going crazy." A third friend yesterday told me that he is worried because loneliness is eroding my natural "effervescence." It's all over when the friend I give ridiculous, Chik'n Soup for the Soul-type advice can tell by this very blog that I'm not...you know...feeling great. Behind her questions, all full of sarcasm and flippancy, was the Behaviors of Major Concern checklist. As she and I and others of our ilk know, every Behavior of Major Concern has a corresponding Behavior to Alleviate Concern, and I'm on it, swear to God. Took a walk this morning! Have activities scheduled each night! I have a chart to monitor my drinking! I'm wearing my favorite shirt--stripy! And just as soon as I finish listening to Smiths (Elliot and The) while writing on my blog, I'm going to get wicked upbeat. I'm talkin: driving to the South Side, singing at the top of my lungs, Usher-style upbeat--and I am not ruling out Mariah Carapy.

While this depression is all me--something wonky, sad, tender, something I should remember but have forgotten right now--Chicago is also a bit moody today, grey and cold and spitting rain. Summer is ending and all the things we were supposed to do are undone and the hot immediacy of City Heat is returning to the Earth's core. We all love sweater weather but it's like flexing a sore muscle: enjoy it now, because it's fading fast. You know what's coming, and it is going to kick your ass.

Oh, and how many big words could I knit together into a giant cozy to cover what is really getting me down? Thirty years old and never in love, lovelies, and while I am assured that it will happen I'm sort of anxious because I've cleared my schedule and have blankets and snacks ready. What E. Jean and all the other Sassy Advice Ladies have said and will continue to say is that I should enjoy the party myself and then the guests will arrive. Ugh. In the end, what saddens me most is not Lebanon nor child abuse nor inadequate hurricane response but the nagging suspicion that I will not ever be loved enough. The shadow of that suspicion is a bad place: I grew up there. The fact is: I'm loved enough right now. It's right there. I could focus on it more if fucking Morrissey would pipe the fuck down.

The point is, I'm bouncing back, I am going to activate my behavior and steady think positive. While I don't actually think Usher is that great--how can he stand the feel of wearing a hat but no shirt?--his stamp of approval means something, as he is a man whore of the highest order. I'm going to get stuck in Damn Ryan traffic listening to "Caught Up." Instead of "If you're pimpin', pop a bottle to this" he'll sing "St. Renegade, you're one Sexy Bitch." And you should, too. This is my town.