Tuesday, February 12, 2013
It is then and there when and where I wrote, Can you have an anxiety attack that lasts eighteen years?
Nobody said anything but my friends laughed.
Slater was graduating, completing everything, everything he had been working toward. High school graduation, moving to Oxford, leaving a house so cold the ice maker refused to make ice.
He, Isaac and Jacob had the house to themselves that week. I would drive up every day, see them, talk to them, mention the groceries lining the counters. Dishes in the sink. They were cooking. It rivaled Sipsey as one of the best Spring breaks ever for them. For me too. I had the Courtyard.
I went with whiskey, a medication of choice for those who get anxiety trying to get over anxiety. Double anxiety equals a double shot but I couldn't drink the entire time. I guess I could have and I guess I'll put that I didn't as a star on my timecard. I needed to visit, Slater needed to visit me, we needed to go to a restaurant and eat. We needed to practice being apart.
And it was good. And it was okay. And he was happy. And so was I.
I think it is important now to say that if anyone ever let go of anything I did in the courtyard that night. Sitting on a back porch looking toward a front porch and listening to a fountain I repeated over and over and over again and again for five days, one hundred twenty hours I said, whispered
Let go. Let God.
Today, right here right now, I am so grateful that Slater and me, we're okay.