Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 9 of 12)

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September 8

September 8

Finally, the last day of this bullshit. Well, at least until next week.

I got up, did my thing, and went to work for 9 a.m. I will say, though, that waking up in a spotless apartment is always a pick-me-up.

The Clubhouse was super fucking busy today. I hated it. The air conditioning also wasn’t working, so I was essentially sweating for nine hours straight. I do not endorse that level of moisture. It wasn’t even the building itself that was busy, though – it was the phone. One call after another for my entire shift, as everyone continued to call me “Kirk” or “Chris” despite my very clear introduction.

The commotion at The Clubhouse today was mostly due to the set-up for tonight’s big “White Party.” Thank God I am missing that hot mess. Otherwise, I would’ve had to battle it out over the fact that I refuse to wear white pants. Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware that I had signed on to work at The Cheesecake Factory. Glad I was able to avoid that moment.

When 6 p.m. rolled around, I was gone. Despite thanking Big Bird yet again for helping me with the Vegas situation, I felt like she was trying to guilt me as I left tonight. Girl, it’s time to get over this. Let’s move on, people! I’ll extend a proper, “make nice” thank-you to the management team when I get back from my trip, but after that it’s over. There’s only so much time I’m going to allow The Clubhouse to guilt me over Mariah Carey, especially when I have been very appreciative. Note to self: squash that bug when I’m home.

After work, I stopped by a small clothing boutique I had discovered earlier today. One of the guys at last night’s party was wearing this killer Fran Fine style outfit – totally out there and ridiculous, but unique – and I wanted it. Well, it turned out that the outfit was half-off and the shop was around the corner from The Clubhouse. The place was awesome. I ended up having a stylist moment with the single employee who was running the store, and left with a denim coordinate set and another pink jacket. I also scammed the girl into giving me an additional 20% off, so that was a nice bonus.

Unfortunately, this evening’s shopping spree was not the most pleasant of experiences. Physically, I mean. We are currently going through another heatwave, and it was hot as hell in the city today. Trying on a matching jacket/pant combo while sweaty and swollen was hardly ideal. I’m also so overweight that I was pulling one of those, “These pants will fit better once I lose this weight” mind tricks, which resulted in me going home with clothes slightly tighter than they should be. Perhaps it will be motivation to lose weight. Lordt knows I need it.

$400 later, I walked to the gym and did my thing for the first time in about a week, which felt very good. Afterwards, I called Mom on my walk home and sort of went off the handle. I hate myself so much for that. Mom was asking me a thousand questions about work, my drinking, my apartment, my Montreal trip, my Vegas trip, and just about everything else. I was feeling overwhelmed. I was really snippy with her.

I felt like Mom was asking so many questions, because she thinks I’m on this ledge that I’m about to jump off of. I don’t want Mom to treat me like her crazy, unstable son, but that’s how she makes me feel. I wasn’t overly rude tonight, but I wasn’t exactly pleasant. I knew it, too. After I said goodbye, I felt horrible. While waiting for the subway, the guilt set in. I sent Mom a text and apologized.

Over the past few months, my stress has accumulated to a boiling point. Now, that stress is beginning to manifest itself in a number of different ways. My skin is horrible. I’m overeating. I’m totally irrational with all of my decisions. I have bad mood swings. I’m drinking more than ever before. Is work the issue? I don’t know.

Back at the Witch Cave, I immediately started packing for Vegas. Once I had a handle on that, along with adequately prepping my apartment for tomorrow’s 5 a.m. wake-up call, I smoked weed, masturbated, and attempted to flush out some creativity by making Instagram videos. While sitting in bed, cropping a video of Mariah Carey singing “Hero,” I looked down at my half-naked body. I started to cry.

My body is so bad right now. Completely out of hand. Things have been rough before, but never this bad. I’ve now reached a point where skipping a few dinners or eating salad for a week isn’t going to fix things. Losing this much weight requires a major lifestyle change. Perhaps that’s a good thing, though. At the very least, it’s certainly necessary. After Vegas, Kate’s rehearsal dinner, and Kate’s wedding, I’m going to stop all drinking until Halloween. I finished my weed tonight, so at least that’s out of my way now. Fantastic.

Trying to forget about the fat rolls that I had just been grabbing on to, I turned off the lights. I couldn’t help but think of my younger self. That chubby blonde boy, struggling with these same issues as he sifted through the “husky” section at Old Navy. Or when I would stand in front of my bedroom mirror, punching myself in the stomach, because I thought it would make the fat go away.

It’s time for bed. I’m still hungry. Big surprise.

Goodnight xo

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