No breeze. I was silent and cold in the afternoon sun. Mercifully, the supervisor just confirmed the end of shift and didn’t ask anything requiring brain cells.
I carried my body like a marionette back into the tower. I was still mostly numb and starting to slump. Somehow I was still functional despite having no functional mind.
But the sprinkle of consciousness starting to creep up from that place in my ankles was toxic, and in high enough doses, would be deadly. I pulled out my phone once again and made my fingers push the names on the recent call list.
My fingers were wooden blocks, no dexterity, and it was worthless to even try to scroll for the persons who could relate to this best. With God’s grace, my finger-blocks managed to text enough of a synopsis to get a response and sent it to the last 5 S.L.A.A. members I had spoken with.
I was not safe in my head and needed help. Whomever was around to read it would help me through this, I figured, even a sponsee. No need to do this alone, and too risky to try. Then, from nowhere, a loud and enthusiastic “Hi, Dear!”
If my body were awake, I would have jumped in fright and crumpled in relief. OMG! My mom came to the beach to surprise me. She had been so happy for me that I was working again and back into the swing of things.
“Hi, Mom!” I came to life and jumped to the sand and gave her a hug. I felt my God was working in my life one more time.
Only 75 minutes until the end of my shift. My mom was appalled about Foffie and was angry and upset.
She called Foffie a nasty liar (she claimed to have broken her leg, so how was she riding a bike?). The relief started in my forehead and loosened the skin on my face, moisture returned to my mouth and eyes, and shimmied all the way down.
Ten minutes later, my girlfriend appeared. She wore a super cute tank top. She had gone for a run and met me for a hug and to hang out for the end of the shift. I was safe.
My protectors were with me like knights in armor. I knew I wouldn’t have to do any part of the grieving, the worrying, the internal fighting, or anything, alone.
About an hour later, Foffie’s bike riding doppelgänger pedaled up. My girlfriend and I saw her at the same time and both of us froze. A moment later, she was close enough to see that her face was different, and my girlfriend and I laughed, our first chance.
Soon, it was 6 o’clock and time to drive home. The car tires were not slashed. A bomb did not explode upon starting the car, and my girlfriend and I talked openly.
She hugged me tight while I sobbed. It was a happy cry at first and then I remembered how Foffie used to hold me like that, but her hefty (ahem, fat) frame was more cushy and comforting. Despite the resentment, fear, and tangled mess of every other emotion, I missed Foffie. So tight and safe in her huge arms. My happy tears turned sad. My girlfriend could detect the switch. I couldn’t tell her why and gave a half-truth that was more of a half-lie. Maybe she knew anyway because she said, “What you miss is a memory, there is no human like that today.” She is right. I miss a memory. I wish today I could splice together the precious few tender times with Foffie and the kind beautiful nature of my current girlfriend. Maybe I’m greedy.
Looking back on that chance encounter, now 2 months and another withdrawal later, I know that the person that I grieved during the first withdrawal was not the Foffie of today.
I grieved a string of isolated experiences that occurred over a span of 10 years and were spliced together in a way that made them flow through my recollection as if the heart-warming closeness and giggle attacks happened just yesterday.
These good memories are now filed in chronological order alongside the mundane, the bad and the ugly. Foffie is safely stowed in the past, just for today.
—ANONYMOUS
17
the Journal, Issue #146