I had absolutely zero willpower to get myself out of bed this morning. I never truly recovered from Pride. I am still so exhausted, to the point that I feel physically ill. I’m coughing like someone who has smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for 20 years. It’s disgusting.
I rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., showered, and left the Witch Cave by 8:30 a.m. to work at that stupid fucking desk all day. Right off the bat, members were rude to me about having to show their fucking membership cards. Get a grip, you fucking twats. I’m just doing my job.
As I was sitting behind the desk, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do with my professional life – many of which were items I had talked about with Mom last night at dinner. In that moment, it dawned on me that I should be bringing my journals to The Clubhouse, and transcribing them while I work the front desk. It’s a completely brilliant plan!
While under a hidden proxy browser – thanks, Google Chrome – I caught up on some personal items, sent out a bunch of emails, and looked for new jobs. The front desk sucks. There’s no pretending otherwise. However, if I’m going to be stuck there doing fuck all, I might as well work on my own stuff while I can. I’m going to make the best of this situation. I’m also going to try and get the fuck out of that stupid club as soon as possible.
A couple of hours into my shift, I was beginning to develop some really bad anxiety. That awful butterfly stomach, and it was likely a result of looking at job postings. Anything career-related is almost an instant anxiety attack for me. That is a major problem, as it makes me avoid all issues at hand. But, if I don’t deal with things, nothing is going to change.
I don’t like taking my Xanax. I want to learn to deal with my anxiety without medication, but sometimes that little pill seems like the only way out. The only way? Or, the easy way? Both, I guess. I rummaged through my backpack for a pill, took one, and then sat back in my chair and returned to work. I worked 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., and then walked home.
About halfway to the Witch Cave, I was struck by the Blues. Whether they were the Hangover Blues or not, I don’t know. I’m not quite sure what came over me, really. I just got really sad. All I wanted to do was listen to ballads and cry. There were a number of moments along my walk home where I took extra-long paths, or considered sitting on a bench in a park and staring off into space, just so I didn’t have to go home and be alone.
I had that awful upset stomach again. Not the shits – the other upset stomach. The one you get when you have to go to the principal’s office. Except, the principal in this case was “the future” and all of the mysteries it holds. I walked home in a haze, holding my arms, and listening to Mariah Carey’s Butterfly album.
I feel sad again. I feel really, really fucking sad. I don’t know what changed. Just last week, I was writing about how happy I was. I was on top of the world. Now, I feel like the weight of that same world is crushing me to the point of no return. Is it the residual depression from all of the alcohol I ingested during the weekend? Is it my job? Is it my romantic life? Is it the fact that I feel fat again? Could it be all of the above?
I didn’t want to go home, sit in my apartment, and listen to the hum and drip of my air conditioner. I kept walking, picking up a bag of candy at the grocery store. Great plan, Kurt. You’re struggling with weight issues, and your plan is to get a pound of sour keys? As if binge eating on your couch is going to make things better? That’s how I deal with things, though. When I am upset, I eat. Then, I’m upset because I ate. God, I feel like I’m a sentence away from quoting Fat Bastard in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me. But, it really is a vicious cycle.
I’m sad that I am alone. I’m sad that I pass guys on the street holding hands, and I don’t have that. Or, when I hear my neighbor say, “I love you,” to his boyfriend as he leaves for work every morning.
I have so much love in me to give. I want to share that love with someone. I want to find someone who is absolutely perfect – even when they are being an asshole. Someone who loves me for who I am. Someone who knows all the right things to say. I want someone who wants – me.
I want so badly to be loved. To be wanted. When I go home to my empty apartment, or when I ask guys out on dates and they never respond, or talk to guys who disappear on me, the rejection stings. It cuts so deep. I try to play it off. I know I was just writing about how fun it is to fuck around. But, at the end of the day, I want the real thing.
I finally went home, and immediately settled into my ass groove on the couch. I watched a couple hours of TV while eating candy, Pringles, and dry cereal. Lovely.
On a positive note, I was happy that I didn’t experience any couch anxiety. Otherwise known as, “The Feeling.” That’s probably the worst anxiety I have ever experienced. It was so claustrophobic. I felt like I was being suffocated by my mind and emotions, with no way out.
Having fortunately avoided the darkness of The Feeling, I decided to exercise on the floor to some music. I got one set of sit-ups under my belt, and then “We Belong Together” started playing. I lost it.
For the next 15 minutes, I sat on my floor and ugly cried to “Hero,” “Anytime You Need a Friend,” and “Music Box.” Sobbing uncontrollably, snot running everywhere, and just a complete mess. What makes the picture even worse is that I exercise naked at the Witch Cave. So, all of this was happening in the nude, on a yoga mat, and in the middle of my apartment.
When “Music Box” ended, I snapped out of my depression relatively quickly. I can make light of the scene now, but in the moment, I felt – I don’t know.
Thoughts of guys I have cared about ran through my mind. Thoughts of helplessness on the job front, of feeling trapped. I was back in my hole. The darkness had consumed me.
I cleaned up my face, shook it off, and felt better. Perhaps I needed that emotional release.
I finished my workout, and crawled into bed.
Tomorrow will be a better day.