One Year ago this weekend . . .
We lost Tim Russert, pundit reactions would irritate my dad.
Two years ago this weekend . . .
I was mad at Ira Glass about the show “Duty Calls”, I witness a woman toss a baby, and I patiently await photos from the Boys of Summer.
Three years ago this weekend . . .
One of my most embarrassing moments and some photos from the Keys.
Four years ago this weekend . . .
Dreamed about Lindsey Lohan and posted photos of poker bloggers at the Plaza.
Five years ago this weekend . . .
I became obsessed with Poker, Hula moved out.
Six years ago this weekend . . .
Posted a random list and a headless shot of Hula, the only photo of him ever posted.
Eight years ago this weekend . . .
I had an echocardiogram.
Nine years ago this weekend . . .
I re-watched “Twin Peaks”.
Ten Years ago this weekend . . .
I started an online journal.
To begin the next decade, I stayed inside all weekend while friends, internet-invisible and real met in Chicago, Bonnaroo, the Alcove downtown and at the movies. I justified bailing on all of these events with actual honest-to-god valid reasons, but after looking through entries tonight that I’ve posted (and not posted) over the last decade, I’m pretty sure a new battle with the ever-shrinking prison that is my agoraphobia is the culprit. Going to a store or the movies should not feel as daunting as jumping out of a plane.
But it does.
In fact, I find I’m increasingly uncomfortable even reading books or watching television about people who get on planes or stray too far from civilization. (Took me two days to watch “Into the Wild”. Two days!)
I’ve fought this particular demon and emerged triumphant before. I have a plan (that includes professional assistance) that I may or may not chronicle here.
Something that sustains me in the darkest hours of anxiety and fear is reading (and watching television) about people who successfully escape. I’m torn, because after ten years (and my foolish appearance on facebook and twitter), this “online journal” isn’t so secret anymore. There’s a good deal more personal shame and professional worry about revealing too much in 2009 than there was in 1999.
I am conflicted. Recording this particular journey here might help someone going through a similar crisis. Recording this particular journey here might also cost me my job.
That being said, it’s not all bad. Despite missing friends around the continent this weekend, I was truly happy at the dome. Florida storms and uninterrupted hours of quiet reading and contemplation, surrounded by the woods and wandering possums, armadillos and deer, accompanied by a chorus of night-bugs and frogs helped yank me out of the clouds of “me, me, me”.
I feel grounded.
Melancholy, but strong and hopeful.
As proof, here I am, strong and hopeful and not visiting a shower since Friday (not due to depression or laziness mind you, but in solidarity for my unwashed brethren at Bonnaroo), looking at the Kindle where much of this weekend’s reading has been done.