Waiting on the Doctor

I haven't emailed the doc, I'm waiting for him to email me again. It is a silly formaility of mine that rivals some of the trivial standards of Versailles. I want to talk to him, I want to email him but I need to wait until he emails me once more. Somehow that would prove his intentions genuine.

It is stupid.

But I'm desperate. Desperate to talk.

The writers' group is fine but I have to lie so thoroughly it is almost more tiring than pleasurable. I can't tell them where I am from or where I live or who I really am. I'm a car in the parking lot and not the image they see before them.

I'm pretty sure I know what it would be like to be a ghost now.

Slipping Back Into Society

This solitary time has been great to figure out some of my interal workings. To sort out my thoughts and feelings. I haven't really resolved any of the big looming questions or anxieties but I at least figured out what they are.

I can't talk out these problems with anyone, but I am missing being social. I miss having dinner with friends and all those silly conversations about the merits of Moonstruck and how romantic comedies these days aren't nearly as good.

There is an advertisement for a writer's group near where I've been staying, I'm thinking of going to it. One of the things about all the crazy plot twists in my life is that they would make for an interesting book. Obviously it would be sold as fiction and I couldn't write everything exactly as it happened but I can write on the culture shock and craziness of aliens secretly living among us. And this would give me a chance to make some new friends. Writers are always a fun brand of crazy.

The Good Doctor

I got an email from the shrink, he was using his personal email which was odd but the IP address matches some previous emails he sent from his home before. He says he wants to help me still, that he figures I ran off and wasn't kidnapped (though he doesn't mention if that is what anyone else thinks). He's no longer officially working my case but he says that he's more worried about my well being than being paid.

It is sweet of him, he's a good doctor I don't think I've ever thought anything different. He's the whole reason I started writing things down, to help sort through my thoughts. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. I'm not sure I'd have come to stare down the behemoth before me that is the feeling of uselessness and emptiness so quickly if I hadn't have been working so hard to put the storm of feelings and thought fragments into coherent sentences.

But I don't know if I can trust him. This could all be a ruse to try and catch me. I mean, I checked and he was reassigned to new work in San Diego but the idea that my own admitting weakness would be the thing to end my vacation is not something I can handle. In my previous life I couldn't even admit weakness to my own family. I lied before I admitted it just like I would do anything that would risk me crying in front of anyone. Just the idea of going to a psychiatrist was preposterious. I couldn't admit to having such faults.

Even now I still feel the shame of not being able to sort myself out. For considering writing back.

But if I am still staring down the emptiness next week I think I will email him and ask what one is supposed to do. What am I supposed to do with my whole life ahead of me, with so many more lives than my whole life looming darkly like a prison?

The Feeling of Waiting

I've been doing very good distracting myself with work and reading e-books but every so often it finds me. My foot slips a little and I inadvertently glance into the bottomless pit that is the eternity I fear. After those brief little glances it eats at the edges of my consciousness. It isn't the last moments that scare me, that haunt me. It is all the days and years and eternities between the moment I am in and the moment I will cease to be.

If these millions of days that loom in every shadow were something physical I would give them to all the people who are dying with things left undone and families to sit with not feeling the need to say anything but just enjoying their company.

If I ever do come upon the Autobots again I am going to be selfish and tell them the truth. We humans are great at persevering and surviving but we are a finite species. We function at our greatest when we know we have only so much time and even that isn't promised to us. We burn so brightly because we know we don't have long. They should never have revived me.

This is the feeling of waiting for the madness and sorrow and ambivalence to overcome the voice that has always been with me telling me to live.

A Nervousness I've Had All Along

Every time I see a blue Corvette my mind races and I have a hard time not bolting like a rabbit who has sensed a fox. I've got my sensors set so any Cybertronian should show up once they are within a mile of me though I'm sure any determined bot could figure a way to dampen their signal. Luckily there aren't very many yellow and black new style Camaros or any of the other Autobots. Well. Barring Ironhide, there are tons of big black trucks, though not as many as blue Corvettes. And it is the idea of Tracks hunting me down. With him I'd wonder if it was personal, if he was mad I had run off without telling him again. That he was mad I purposely fell off the radar.

It is so silly for that to be my biggest worry. That my nervousness is almost all about having hurt Tracks's feelings. Not that the government may now consider me a traitor and wish to capture and detain me. Not that the Autobots may think I've gone over to the Decepticons. Not that all my hard work may unravel. My worry is that Tracks is mad.

I guess part of me has always figured I would cross paths with him again and I would want it to be like the time before everything hit the fan. After his planetfall but before the Autobots made their home at Norton. That glorious time when we we bantered back and forth and were rather blissfully unaware that there were Decepticons out on this world. But we all dream of better times when we are unsure or afraid or sad.

I guess that is why I dream of my life before. Because I am unsure. I am unsure what I am supposed to do, Cybertronians live for millenia so I've got a lot of time to figure out what to do with.

This Fleeting Sense of Calm

For the past week I've woken up every morning parked at a camp site that overlooks the ocean, surrounded by empty camp sites. The mornings start out grey and the mist takes a while to dissipate. Everything is silent other than the little quails that dash about and the waves on the shore. It is amazing.

I should have done this years ago.

That is what I always think. But then, after the sun sets, finally sinking below the ocean I'm afraid. I'm filled with panic and wish I could cry. And then I wake up in the morning, a little before the sun rises to the chirps of the quails darting about.

And then here I am, after a week of serenity and terror, left wondering if this is what the rest of eternity is going to be like.