All Night, Every Night

Welcome to the coldest night of the year.

Actually, at 5:49 a.m. as I type this, it's now morning. Another all-nighter.

What began a month or so ago as a fun and productive excuse to abuse aderall for one last time has progressed. This may be my fourth or fifth all-nighter since. I don't quite know.

Unlike that first time, with Amanda in tow, working on Patch stuff as we dreamed about our next big adventure in South Korea, I am alone at the kitchen table in her parent's house, while she sleeps for her third hour. She said to wake her at 6 – I think I'll give her a little more time.

The "day," if we are going to call it that, began for us at 12:30 p.m. It wasn't that aderall event that caused my sleep schedule to fall out of whack. It may have been in November, when the several months of success with Cymbalta turned. When I began to get lazy or forgetful with dosages, had one-too-many fun night outs, when the effects of aderall still swam over me like a brilliant wave of well. When I could sit on the couch and talk with friends in Korea on Facebook as if it was the most beautiful thing I could possibly have done short of giving birth to pure joy straight out of my ass. I apologize, that was the best line I could come up with at this late/early hour.

That day in November, with the pressures of Patch work mounting, with the feeling that the whole world (never mind even fewer people knew what Patch was then than now) was watching my every post and wondering why I didn't write this or why I wrote that. With the feeling to run building inside me in the Atlanta Bread Company parking lot in Morris Plains. And feeling lower than dirt, because yet another opportunity to quit smoking went up in cigarette smoke.

And, I crashed. I called Lou, my boss, whom I was supposed to meet shortly there with several other Patch editors for our weekly meeting. I told him I needed to take a few days off. I needed to "get my head back on straight." He'd known about my medication, my "depression," which I don't throw around lightly. I don't just want to announce, "hey, pity me! Give me a break! I'm depressed!" Regardless of whether or not their degrees and their titles essentially mean they just went through more school than I did, it does hold some weight when a "professional" hands you the coveted label. And, they have not done so yet, at least, not officially.

So, I left the parking lot. Drove home, packed my things in a rush as if I was being chased by the police. I still had one more thing to attend. I had to attend it, the whole world was watching. What if I wasn't there when all the other news outlets were? What then?

And, I went. And, it was fine. But, that didn't matter. I was already packed. I headed south, to Long Branch.

Amanda and I spent several days at her parent's house while I "got my head on straight." On one of those days, I can't remember now, we slept on the couch until 2:30 p.m.

We kind of laughed about it then, joking that her sister would be home from school pretty soon and we were still under covers, with sleep boogers still sticking to the sides of our eyes. But, it's escalated.

On Friday, I slept until 2:30 p.m., after dousing myself with a Percocet and three ibuoprofen PMs. Even now, it doesn't seem like a lot, which in itself is telling. Two PMs have made me groggy when waking at a more sane time of 10 a.m. Add to that another, and a very powerful painkiller. What the hell was I thinking?

That's another story, one involving pulled wisdom teeth and a subsequent emergency room visit earlier in the week for what turned out to be a highly-infected abscess on my tonsil that had already swelled my mouth nearly shut and turned my voice, when I could gather the strength to speak, into a muppet's. The only time I drank liquids were to try and choke down more PM's, some of my roommate's Lunesta, more Percocets, anything that might knock me out after basically being awake for two days. It's funny. One Percocet and three PM's put me into a 14-hour coma, but on that most painful night before we went to the ER, I must have downed half-a-dozen PM's, three or four Lunesta's, three Percocets and several prescription-strength ibuprofen tabs and I may have slept about 45 minutes spaced over eight hours. What kind of shit is that?

This has turned into quite the tangent. Well, what did you expect from someone who has been up all night, on aderall, cigarettes and grape juice? It feels kind of good to purge. It's something I seem to be getting good at.

So, yeah, where were we? Right, I threw up today. Right there, as Amanda was taking photos of a school for the Middletown Patch directory, my stomach gave that calling card shimmy and shake that comes right before the storm. Instinctively, I went for the door lock to open it, holding onto my stomach and closing my eyes.

"Are you OK," Amanda asked. "Are you OK?"

I just kept my eyes closed and shook my head, slowly. A minute. "I think I'll be OK."

She said maybe I should stand outside anyway while she drove up and took some more photos of the building. As I stepped out, the wave came across again, and a little stream of vomit crossed my lips. Small.

And then, more came. Right there in the parking lot of some innocent elementary school. What did it ever do to me?

Amanda immediately turned off the car and got outside. She was obviously scared. I was, too. Well, shit, that never happened before.

The day continued. I spoke a lot about my feelings, about my fears, about how, essentially, it comes down to not liking myself very much, which sounds incredibly damaging and irrational now, 14 hours later. All of this comes off as very irrational. It doesn't make any sense. And, it's what I have dealt with, on and off, for a long time. Something happens, I crash. But then, I get up. And, I move on. And, that's a good thing. That's what you're supposed to do. But, maybe, I should have spoken up about it sooner than now, before the all-nighters, before the pills, before all the self-loathing that right now does not make any sense to the point I don't want to even write it here for fear of embarrassment and for fear of not telling the truth. For fear of being a drama queen. But, it happened. And, I know how I felt. It's worse.

I don't want to bring this feeling to Korea. I don't want to wallow in it, or ignore it like I think many of my lineage has ignored it and laid their burden of shit onto my head. If I were to break up with you, Amanda, it would be on my terms and for my reasons, not because something in my head that does not for some reason want me to be happy says it's time to run again. I'd ask you only to do the same.

I have stayed up all night this time not just because I like popping pills. I am meeting a new psychologist at 9 a.m. in Morristown, and I know our track record. We've woken up too late too many times, and left things to the last minute too many times to assume if we both slept, that one of us would have the wherewithal to scrape ourselves out of the bed or off the couch, drag our partners forth, and make our ways to our appointments. This shrink may not be the ultimate answer, but something in me tells me if I find a reason not to attend, this is all going to start over again. And again. And again. And again.

Maybe that's why the aderall doesn't seem to be working anymore. I know the high is always followed by a low. And, I just don't know how many more lows I can take.

Trilogy

They, whoever they are, say things happen in threes. A trilogy theme, this one.

Death happens in threes, those really perspective "they" always like to say. "They" being the lazy way of not bothering to seek attribution, such a lazy journalist.

Korea is supposed to be in threes, if all goes well and we find our way back there in August. Fingers-crossed, kissing our rabbit feet, keeping both our souls tender, full of wonder and young, praying we don't get too old before we grow up.

And, hopefully, the medical procedures I have required since coming back from Korea part two will stop at three, as well.

Gallbladder, May 2010. Wisdom teeth extraction, last week. Tonsil abscess drain, Tuesday.

I recently spoke with a Patch co-worker, somewhat casually at the time, about just how much morphine I have consumed since May when, I had not consumed any ever. I think I told him I must have had at least 20 doses when in the hospital last year, making the two the people in the ER gave me for the highly-infected sore threatening to close my throat earlier this week seem kind of like a nice and relaxing alternative to the regular workaday I would have had to have dealt with outside, with icy snow and freezing rain making things generally miserable in Morristown.

It's a lot like a good, far-flung friend of mine and his own personal articulation he must now face with a loved one's pending mortality. When you face mortality so many times, yours or of those you love, it almost becomes like just another Tuesday. Not a particularly good one, but you look at that mortality so many times, and somehow lose something very profound about how to articulate it.

And, you have to wonder, is that a good thing, a bad thing, or just a thing?

Does it help stretch time or speed it a lot further than it would have otherwise have been perceived? Wouldn't we all love time to move as fast as it wanted to, if we at least knew we could keep those we hold close as close to our hold as possible?

Had I stayed in Korea part two, my year would be almost up by now.

Some of those I oriented with in Jeonju are already on-course for year number two. Good. I'll be happy to see them, share some drinks, a nice meal of shabu shabu or perhaps a gimbap or three. Others I will no doubt see at some point somewhere, just not in Busan. Some, I'll probably never see again.

And, all that happened almost a year ago. Since then, I've lost a gallbladder, two teeth and a really disgusting sack of shit in my throat.

Perspective, baby.

We Own The Night

I am entering my 23rd hour awake. Amanda, her 22nd. Aderall helps. But, eventually, your body is just going to give out. But, not yet.

We are at the Middletown Starbucks, working on stuff for Patch. The regular crowd is coming in. At least, they seem to be regulars--they respond to one another by name.

They may think they have left their mark on this place, because they're here all the time. But, they're wrong. We were the first ones in this Starbucks, over two hours ago.

The New Monmouth Diner wasn't open yet so we grabbed a couple coffees, sat down and killed some time before 6 a.m. We talked a lot throughout the night, about life, about the past, about the things that come out with ease during an "Addy All Nighter."

We talked about South Korea. We talked about going.

Amanda agreed to get on board for the August intake instead of the next one, in February 2012. She said she has been spinning her wheels. Whether we left in August or February--what were we waiting for?

It has me excited. Not only because, well, I'm going back. We're going. Amanda and I. A team, but also, our own entities, with our own stories to be written. We've decided to go to Busan. Amanda said she likes the idea of having a little bit of pre-knowledge from my experience. It's a big city. So long as we don't end up assigned to apartments in Deokcheon, it can be a wholly new experience for me, as well.

There was a time where it didn't seem possible that I could experience this with someone else from this part of my world. I was greedy: This is mine, all mine! None of you can have this. None of you have experienced this and so none of you could possibly understand.

But, Amanda is different. I knew that all along. We share a mind in many ways. We have similar interests, similar histories. Not so much as to be like looking in a mirror (though we do sometimes complete each other's sentences on occasion), but pretty darn close. We share what makes us great, what can make us weak, and we both have the power to help soothe the other at our most vulnerable. It's frighteningly symbiotic.

And, we both want to travel. We both want to experience. We both want something more from what this is. We both want to step off this page and write another, one I don't think many people (at least here) were expecting.

We're coming to Korea. Third time's a charm.

Plan B?

Despite technically being "at war" for nearly 60 years, I don't think anyone without intimate knowledge of the ongoing conflict suspected North and South Korea would possibly be returning to active battle.

Speaking to some friends in Busan via Facebook, the vibe there has been relatively mute. At least, based on their limited Korean language skills. It would not be unusual for their co-teachers and various Korean friends to downplay any issue, whether to save face or because they figure the waygooks wouldn't understand.

From this side of the world, there is definitely an air of something about to happen. North Korea says they are "on the brink of war" with South Korea. Could it just be the usual "sabre-rattling" that Kim Jong Il and co. tend to do when it seems they have run out of money and want to build up enough worry that the U.N. will give them something to shut them up? Or, could it be something more?

With the possibility of returning to Busan still over a year away, this could easily have blown over by then. We could be on our way, all could be fine, despite folks over here worrying we're going to get bombed (and not in that way. I mean, the less-fun, actually get blown up way).

Or, they could be in full-scale war. Busan is about a seven-hour bus ride to the DMZ, but I don't think I'm even adventurous enough to think that going during something like that is a good idea. Hell, government programs like EPIK might even be put on hold during all this, to defer resources to the military, for fear of bringing foreigners in during conflict, because it just wouldn't be a good idea.

So, then what? What is Plan B? Do I stick it out here, bide my time? Or, do Amanda and I simply give this idea up?

There are other places in the world to go to. Taiwan. I wonder what Lippart is hearing about all this over there?

I wonder, actually, what everyone is hearing about all this. What are you hearing, friends?

Crossing the Rubicon

Shortly after the last post, I began taking Cymbalta, an antidepressant. Whether it was the medication, the job, having Amanda or simply time, or a combination of all, something happened.

I began to enjoy what I do.

The two-month window had passed. The two-month window that ended 2005, that ended 2010, that probably ended other endeavors. It passed. And, I realized it was possible to go beyond that point, cross the rubicon, or something like that.

And, that is when I knew Korea was possible.

When I proposed going back to Korea in late August, my brother told me it was possibly the stupidest thing he had ever heard come out of my mouth. Later on, I knew he was right. He also said, were I to mature, go beyond this restriction that had been set up in my mind, this two-month window, and then decided I wanted to go back, I would have his blessing. Then, I would not be running, I would be making a decision based not on fear, but on desire. But, I had not arrived yet.

I would like to think I have since come closer to that destination.

I am enjoying my time in Morristown, covering what is really a nice, interesting little city. There is a lot going on for Morristown Patch to cover, and I am happy to be part of it.

But, I want to go back to Korea. Remember my Ace? It's still in my pocket.

And, this time, I won't be alone.

But, we have time. So, let's enjoy these moments in New Jersey,
bitter and sweet they may be.
Let us relish the change of seasons,
walks alone and together down Speedwell and Morris,
down South Street's trendy corridor.
Let's long for winter and cuddle under Jersey sheets,
while the dog vies for attention,
and the blackout curtains drown out the fading light.
Let us form connections for songs to places and moments in our minds,
and drinks and late nights,
misty spray and wiped sweat off brow
and making use of the yearlong gym contract.
Let us make memories here.

And then, we'll start making memories over there.

The year or so we have to wait won't seem so long once we've arrived.

2MOWINDOE (Two-month window)

It's happening again. My window. My time-limit. Two months.

It happened in Korea. Twice. And now it's happening with Patch.

It's like I cannot stay involved in anything for more than two months. The newness wears off. The routine settles in. The difficult parts stay. Did you think you could just coast forever, John? Maybe.

I made the mistake of popping onto Facebook and looking at photos of friends, now almost seven months into their assignments. A lot can happen in seven months.

Will be leaving this apartment in Morristown at the end of the month. She raised the rent, the leaseholder. She didn't know I spoke with the landlord who said, "Jamie will be happy to know I'm not raising the rent." It's just as well; we didn't really get along.

Debating sticking around tonight or going back to Middletown to see Amanda. There is something being organized tomorrow night called a "Culinary Staycation". Which one did I end up meeting these people for? The Korean one. Of course. There will even be karaoke at the end of the night, so long as there are songs in English. Of course there will be. If there were songs in English in Korea...

I had fantasies of going back to Korea earlier this week when I was at my most anxious. I even almost convinced Amanda to come with me. Why not? I'm unstable, I haven't proven my ability to stick something out. Why not bring someone else over to the other side of the world with me? Makes sense.

Dan said, "that has to be one of the stupidest things I have ever heard you say."

He said, if I seemed like I had learned a lesson, that you need to stick things out sometimes, he would welcome the idea. But, "you haven't learned that lesson yet."

Third time's the charm? Good enough argument?

I just told Jenna I had fantasies of going back to Korea.

"I've had fantasies of going home before, but then I wake up and find myself swimming in rice cakes."

Grass is greener. I don't remember a lot of grass in Busan.

Time

Six months. Jenna pointed out it has been nearly six months since several hundred foreigners descended on Seoul/Incheon International Airport, bleary-eyed, pie-eyed, doe-eyed, and began what, for most of them at least, would be a year (or more) of teaching English in a foreign country.

Six months ago, I was preparing to leave. Three months ago, I was preparing to have gallbladder surgery. One month ago, I was preparing to move an hour north to Morristown. And, now, I am preparing for Morristown Patch to become the 100th Patch Site to launch, and all the national ballyhoo that is expected to come of that.

Six months. Where the hell did the time go?