Room For Cream?

My train ride was silent this morning. All I could hear was the sound of thoughts trying to make their way into words in my head. Responses to pressures I was feeling. Pressures from many sources and directions. Pressures I didn’t really know were there. Pressure can be a very subtle thing and one can endure a great deal of it without being aware. Expanding and contracting as various aspects of life ebb and flow. This particular day, I hit my internal red zone. Panic began to set in as I became fearful that I could not speak a sentence — perhaps ever again. Tears began to surface... again. They had begun on the train platform a few minutes earlier when I returned a phone call to my sister, Julie. After a brief conversation which ended when she posed the question, “How are you doing?” and I tried to answer “I’m fine” but was rendered speechless. My body wouldn’t let the words out. It wouldn’t allow such deceit. It wouldn’t allow anything to be said. After a long silence I fought to get the words “I’ll call you back” delivered before hanging up. I was overpowered by a breach in the emotional dam designed to protect me. When working properly, it harnesses the powerful force of my emotions and controls the flow. I don’t know if I should call it working “properly” — perhaps “normally” is a better term. Normal for me anyway.

Coffee is my feel good remedy. Aspirin is called the miracle drug. Coffee is simply my miracle. For some unknown reason, which I believe began in college, I have come to think of coffee as some sort of magic potion — an elixir that can transcend my ability to sort things out on my own. Perhaps there’s more to caffein than we realize. Or maybe this is a typical symptom of any addiction. Or maybe coffee is just a superhero for me to believe in — I can always count on it to help me sort things out. Regardless, when we pulled in to Union Station where I transfer from the Gold Line to the Red Line on my daily commute to Hollywood, I decided to stop at the new Starbucks that had gone in days earlier. When I approached the front of the line, I wondered if I could utter my order without losing the words as had happened on the conversation with my sister. When, to my relief, I got my order out (not without a great deal of effort), I was derailed when the cashier asked a follow up question, the answer to which I had not rehearsed in line. The 20 minutes of attempted tear control leading up to this Starbucks visit was clearly evident in my face judging by her reaction. She quickly understood that I was somewhere else at that moment and left the question of whether I wanted room for cream or not to be answered another day. She filled the cup.