February 14th, 1982
The day begins off-center for me. I start to whine about Howie. This “sober” relationship is too tame— too calm. There is no urgency— no driving sense of importance. It is lacking dramatic content. I long for passion to flare up— and it does not.
the fact is that I am having a perfectly wonderful time with Howie. I like him and enjoy him. He came by the apartment after work last night. We had planned to have a fast supper and see a play off-Broadway here in the Village. After a berserk day at the office, I left a state of chaos and raced home for a whirlwind shower— iron a shirt— feed Sadie— straighten the apartment and try to look calm and normal within 45 minutes. Howie arrives— and, curiously enough, states that he is exhausted and needs to lie down. He stretches out on the sofa while I walk Sadie. We decide that trying to have supper and get to the theater by 7:30 is just too much of a rush. So we have dinner at the Cottonwood Cafe. It’s a nice dinner— we discuss religion. After dinner, we walked back toward my apartment— and realized that a meeting was just beginning at the church on Christopher Street— Howie wants to go. It is a gay meeting. I am immediately uncomfortable. I don’t know why. I suggest that we meet later— that I want to go to St. Luke’s. He said he’d like to join me. On the street, he said he knew that I was not comfortable. St. Luke’s is fine— and I am comfortable.
Lord God, honey— it’s 12:30 on a Saturday night and I am a complete wreck. Here I am going on and on with this detailed account of how I felt last night. I am running hot and cold with Howie. One minute wondering if he is a boob— the next minute wishing he’d stare into my eyes and tell me that he loves me. My job is insane. I worked all afternoon and got practically nothing done. It’s just going to be insanity trying to get it all done in the next couple of days. Horrendous depression sets in late afternoon. I go to a meeting at Sheridan Square. Foul mood. I come home and lie in a heap and start to feel better. Richard called today. Tomorrow would’ve been 1-year sobriety— he’s been on a two-week binge— arrested for shoplifting and lost his job. All those old panics of responsibility for his insanity. Phil calls me at the office to tell me that he can’t get tickets for the Met on my birthday. Morrie his lover is there and he’s very palsy. I feel like he is being kind to me. The openness proves that I am no threat to his relationship. When I come home this morning Allan is here with a trick and snippy. I tell him I am going into the office and, in front of his trick, he says “Oh, good”.
Howie
Work
Allan
Phil
Work
Work
Work
Work
Work
Work
Richard
Depression is a process of accumulation for me. I can’t handle more than one negative emotion at a time.
So tonight I took myself to a movie— “Making Love”— now I eat ice cream and read the Sunday Times— and wonder how in the name of God I’m ever going to get all this work done.
Crazy tonight. But not as depressed.