February 8th, 1982
It is nearly eleven p.m.— I sit on the sofa in my underwear and a t-shirt smoking a cigarette— having just polished off a late-night snack of fried rice and an egg roll. My pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate-chocolate chip is “breathing”— reaching room temperature. I am a connoisseur of Häagen-Dazs. I am emotional tonight. I have just cried my way through two meetings at St. Luke’s. Overwhelmed by feelings I cannot name. I think it is a combination of gratitude and fear. Paul spoke tonight of the emotional masochism of romance. I want the phone to ring. I want Howie to call me tonight. I will not call him. I am afraid of crowding him with my attention. I am so afraid of doing the wrong thing with him. My need for love is terrible. It is a monstrous thing that I cannot reveal to him. I must not allow Howie to see this hideously disfigured heart of mine. He must not see this scarred desperate horrible creature so ravenous with need. I think today that I should kill this dreadful monster. I sit at my desk at work and stare into space— images of a gleaming knife blade moving smoothly through my guts.
It occurred to me during the meeting tonight how utterly powerless I am over my entire life. I cannot wrest love from Howie. I cannot “act right” and make someone love me. I cannot control my job. (It, too, is rearing up in front of me like a deadly snake.)
TIME OUT. I quit. I surrender. Like a dog, I roll over on my back. The belly is exposed. I give up.
Howie just called and I am joyous. Now I will eat my Häagen-Dazs and not think. Don’t think and go to meetings.