What's Up With The Phone?

I just can't call anyone. No, it's not a technical difficulty, it's an emotional one, but now I believe it's turned into a physical affair. I'm getting better at answering it, but dialing (or rather tapping the illuminated screen) is a no-go.

Really, this failure to communicate started out with Facebook. I haven't been able to go on the horribly addictive site since November the 24th. It sorta reminds me of the time I shared a bottle of tequila with my ex, then we both choked down the worm and next thing I remember, I woke up being spooned on the couch in clothing from the night before, with vomit on the back of my head.

Somehow I was to blame about that one. Umm ... not sure how someone can puke on the back of their own head, but you know how it goes with alcoholics. We never take responsibility for our own actions.

After the tequila, worm and vomit episode, I couldn't drink tequila anymore. Oh, that didn't stop me. There were MANY other poisons to experiment with. Goddamn I'm happy to be 11 years clean 'n sober and hangover free.

But, I digress. My life got a lot better when I told the bottle to hit the road. And to be completely honest, my creativity has been streaming since I stopped going on Facebook. However, I stopped going because I just wasn't strong enough to speak to anyone about my love's transformation. It has just been easier to speak to my imaginary friend here on my blog, whoever 'you' are. (**waving at you now**)

You see, every time but one, when I speak about Papi's choice of male transformation, I stomp into the tearful war zone. My mind spirals down into the great hole of anguish and I reel into that bloodcurdling place where demons proudly strut. They take your hand, pull you on to the dance floor and the next thing you know, you're thinking of buying a home and starting a family with the rayless spirits you're flirting with.

I've learned that Facebook is a shallow, toxic place. Great for promoting, however. Which brings me to my next concern of my isolation. My producer (and wonderful friend, albeit still my boss) has asked me to promote our newest video that was just finished (it's here if you're interested in seeing it), but I told her I just can't get on to Facebook yet. It's too difficult. If I were to go and start showing my virtual face, people may realize they haven't heard from me in almost a month and ask where I've been, because they had seen me every day for years. I can't safely expose my grieving and pain to this empty place. I couldn't bear any negativity and judgement that could come out of it. I'm still too weak to put on the boxing gloves and defend myself.

It killed me when I dropped off Facebook and found out how shallow my 636 'friends' really were. Hardly anyone cared or even noticed that I vanished. That's how I figured out who my true friends were. The ones that actually noticed I was missing. Those few are the people who texted, emailed, called and did their best to contact me even though I was avoiding everyone at that point. These are the people who love me.

I am grateful for those true friends and for the painful feat of hiding to find out who thinks about me. I think it was mostly my ego that got hurt when I realized how many people didn't care that I disappeared. Sometimes, I think I'm still that rockstar that was shortlisted for Hole oh so many years ago.

I'm not that rockstar. I'm still a professional musician, but I'm not that rockstar. And I still can't go on Facebook. I'm a mess. But now that messy being can't even pick up the phone and dial.

My aunt said she tried to contact me on Facebook and I told her I just can't go on anymore. I don't even remember if I told her that my love is going through the male transition (thank you brain injury, ugh) when I called her on her birthday. I've been in a fog. I know I told her I was going through something, but I don't know if I actually told her about 'it'.

I know I also told her I would call over a week ago, but I still haven't done it. I can't willingly get on the phone and talk to anyone about what's going on, because it will only increase the creases on my forehead and the little ones on the sides of my eyes. Every time I cry, those confessions of age get more prominent.

So, I just don't call.

However, I do answer the phone now. I've made a pact with myself that I'll answer the phone with people that I feel I could take that chance with to speak about 'it'. I found the strength after that 1st conversation with my dear friend where I didn't cry at all. It was the ONLY time I've been able to talk about 'it' without crying in over a month. Every time I bravely pick up that ringing little plastic device, I think it's possible that I'll have a second dry conversation.

Those arid words haven't happened in a phone answering episode yet. I suppose these are my first steps. The wobbly steps. The horrifying steps like the ones I had to take 2 years ago after my motorcycle accident. The brain injured steps that felt like 'walking on a canoe on water'. I had to teach my brain to walk all over again.

I guess that's what I'm doing here. I'm learning to confess the nightmare has taken over my psyche. I'm getting out the words through my fingers instead of my mouth.

I am doing this by speaking to 'you', my imaginary friend. And my suggestion to 'you' is to use that phone. Call someone you love and knows you love them. Because honestly, i'm really lonely here.