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It’s Been a Minute

By November 7, 2012Depression

It’s been a minute since I have had the chance to write. Two weeks ago today, I was in the final preparations of the Masquerade Ball. Since then, we have raised over $45K, been hit with the worst natural disaster that NYC and the surrounding areas have seen in some time, President Obama was re-elected, and today we got a little nor’easter that is dropping snowflakes over the Northeast. Many homes are still without power, heat, or running water.

You know, just your average 14 days in the life of…

When I first intended on writing last, Sandy was making her final approach towards NJ. It was roughly the same time that Irene had hit last year and was smack dab in the middle of David falling to absolute pieces. We cooked up some serious soups that day—chowder, chicken noodle, or chili, I don’t recall now. That was what I was going to write about then.

Then the storm hit. For me and my neighbors, we went to sleep feeling cheated, like when Irene hit the UES and the most we had were a couple puddles. I woke up to pretty much what I wake up to everyday… that was, until I turned on the television and saw the havoc this little storm—cell-timed with the right moon-phase—could muster. I had considered writing about Gloria, a storm that walloped us in 1985 and the first hurricane DP and I went through together.

But then it was time to put the pen down and help out where I could. So the doors were thrown open, and my house became a temporary shelter. At this point, I’ve had guests in the house since Thursday the 25th, and it didn’t show any signs of letting up. I thought about writing about all the people who were around me when David died, taking my mind off the nauseous waves of pain wracking my body systematically throughout the days following.

And then today, the snow began to fall. Snowfall… the one event that DP and I would stop whatever we were doing and snap a shot or text as soon as it hinted at snowing. Plans were drawn for the first trip. Quick “lunches” at the Burton store in SoHo were coordinated, and so began the second bond of our kinship between me and David. So I guess I could write about that.

But somehow, that’s not really what I want to write about either.

What is it about storms and turmoil that drive us to secretly want them? For those of you who lived in areas that never lost power, did you feel cheated? C’mon, just a little bit? Did any of you secretly hope that the crane fell and plummeted through the streets of 57th street? Did you find yourself putting on your storm clothes and venturing out toward the East River or the Hudson? Did those of you who lost power, at least initially, crank on some candles, pull out the board games, and make a go of it?

My guess is it reminds us we are alive—it breaks up the regularly-scheduled programming in our daily lives. That is, until we want to grab the “clicker” and shut off the bad dream. I could tell by the people who circulated through my place during the last days, their frustration of something way outside of their control.

This is kind of what it was like to watch David spiral. There were parts where I was able to be a big brother again and try to protect him. It made me feel good—like I was doing something right—and that I was qualified to deal with his problems. That’s the hope something bad happens—you will have lived it, or be the hero during it, or whatever that is medically called—with the assumption everything is going to be okay… then it started getting old. The cyclical new norm, the destruction that continued to happen. And then the lack of any control: the inability to affect any change to slow things down, or to try to get the power back on but knowing you weren’t ConEd. Now it was in the hands of the “professionals,” and you just sat back and waited for help. What else could you do? Sitting resigned in your place, or maybe a friend’s place, hoping the power comes back and the heat will turn on at any minute in this cold, cold place.

Sometimes, it doesn’t come back on. Then you feel like an asshole, like I did the other day when I woke up and felt guilty for wanting more “storm” like this was a Will Farrell skit with some more “cowbell” needed. And then I gave myself a break, because secretly we all wanted something to shake up our day a bit, to feel alive again. Now, it’s a matter of staying alive and being careful of what we wish for next time…