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

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December 23

December 23

Last night was not cute. The weed I smoked brought to light the severity of my behavior over the past – seven years? Basically, as long as I have been drinking. In a way, I think I was too hard on myself. This is what I’m talking about when I say that drugs make you see things from another point of view, though. How ironic. Who would have thought that getting high would make me realize how much of a mess I truly am?

What really got me last night was the thought of seeing other guys drunk. Perhaps the vision had something to do with being in the shower, and seeing my naked body reflected in the bathroom mirror. I don’t know. Either way, all I could think about were the times when I’ve seen a big guy at a bar and he’s fucked out of his mind. Having been in that situation so many times myself, I think I experience those encounters a bit differently than most. Still, it’s alarming to see a guy like that. You know? Certainly unattractive.

Then, something clicked. I thought, “It’s me.” I know what I am like outside of those messy nights. My life is a total Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moment. Once in a while, Drunk Kurt comes out to get rowdy. Other than those horrible instances, I am actually a fairly responsible and upstanding member of society. The whole evening was a bit of a mind fuck.

What I was really hoping to gain from last night’s weed was a distraction from the Aaron and Sonny drama. Instead, that nightmare was all I could think about. I didn’t know how to deal with the anxiety. The only thing I could think of was shoveling food into my mouth until I’d eaten everything in my hotel room – to the point where my choice was to either open a packet of Splenda, or go to bed. Fortunately, I chose the latter.

I woke up tired, groggy, and bloated as all hell. Fuck. I packed up as much as I could, showered, and went for a quick breakfast with Mom and Dad in the hotel lobby. Nothing ground-breaking or eventful during those moments. Afterwards, we loaded up the car with Phillip and began our drive to Montreal – with Tabitha riding behind the wheel with Dad. It’s in those moments that I laugh. Something which seems so normal and matter-of-fact to our family, is actually quite out of the ordinary. A cat in the front seat. I love it. That’s what makes our family unique, and what has no doubt shaped me into the many characters I am today.

The road trip was business as usual. I wanted to do some writing, until I realized that the lack of internet, paired with the confinement of the truck and its loud speaker system, was not exactly conducive to creativity. I need silence when I work. That wasn’t going to happen in the truck.

Eventually, we made it to the Walker’s house in Montreal. I settled into Cousin Ashley’s old room, which now looks more like the set-up of a Mormon/Quaker household. There are two separately made twin-size beds pushed together, complimented by matching furniture that dates back at least a couple of generations. I’m sitting on one of the beds right now, writing this entry. Although I’ve been sleeping in random beds for a couple of weeks now, it’s very odd for me to be in Ashley’s room.

This bedroom used to be untouchable. It was Ashley’s temple. When I was a kid, it was such a big deal for me to hang out in my older cousin’s bedroom. Now, it’s almost unrecognizable. I’ll never forget the way Ashley used to have it, though. “Got Milk?” magazine photos tacked on every wall, Beanie Babies sitting upright on the shelves, and a large collection of CDs and VHS tapes under the vintage boob tube. It’s so strange to me how things like that can change over time. There’s a picture of teenage Ashley on the wall. She’s got dark brown curly hair, and she’s wearing a denim jacket.

I think about time a lot. How we change ourselves over time. How time changes how we feel about things. While I will always be “Kurt,” there have definitely been many incarnations. The 15-year-old Kurt that I see in pictures probably didn’t imagine himself in my shoes today. To be honest, I don’t know if I would be happy or sad with how my life is at this point. I feel as though I had so many hopes, dreams, and expectations for myself at that age. When I look at where I am now, it’s so far from what I wanted. On the other hand, that overweight teenager in a size 38 pant probably never thought that he would be fucking guys and sucking dick while his size 31 jeans lay inside out on the floor next to the bed.

Do you know what the worst saying about time is? “Time heals all wounds.” And do you know why it’s so horrible? Because it’s fucking true. I swear. When someone tells me that, I want to slap them across the face. Yet, it’s so accurate. Time and time again, I find myself feeling polar opposite emotions on certain experiences.

You know I’m going to bring him up. I’m talking about the Logan situation. Actually, you know what? Wait. I don’t even want to mention him anymore. What’s the damn point? But, that’s just it. That is my point! What was probably one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life, has now been reduced to a dismissive line in a journal entry.

On the other hand, one character who never seems to fade away with time is RX. Today, it was my fault. I messaged RX this morning, and essentially initiated a conversation that lasted throughout the majority of my road trip to Montreal. As I near closer to organizing my old journal entries, a part of me is almost scared to analyze the number of times I’ve written about RX. Another part of me feels so stupid for continuing this relationship – if you can call it that, which I do. Then, there’s yet another part of me that keeps thinking there must be something that is keeping our connection alive.

After all this time, why do I still smile when I get a message from RX? Why is there this voice inside of me that keeps telling me he is right for me, and that we would be happy together? I don’t understand it. I also don’t understand how I can go from being so angry and upset with RX, to wishing we could rekindle an intimate relationship with one another. It’s psychotic. It’s comforting. At this time of year, it’s not at all surprising. To be honest, I missed this last year.

After our movie date disaster last November, RX and I didn’t speak. We never exchanged a single message over the holidays. It was also RX’s first birthday since I’ve known him that I didn’t reach out and wish him well. It sounds insignificant. I know. That was a big deal for me, though. Now, having RX around again is – comforting. I don’t know how else to describe it. There aren’t many people I feel comfortable opening up to, or who I feel really know me. RX does. At least, he did. If we could do it then, who’s to say that we wouldn’t work again? I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m jumping around a lot. Now, I’m going back to before we even embarked on the road trip.

I hadn’t heard anything from Aaron since the day he sent me that horrible message. Given last night’s panic attack about what might happen with his eviction, I decided that I had to send Aaron a message this morning. So, I did. The text was heartfelt and apologetic. I offered to help again, and I admitted to my mistakes once more. I even sent a draft to Greg, and he said it was a really nice note.

That was at 10:00 a.m.

I didn’t receive a response from Aaron until 5:00 p.m. today.

I know that people aren’t on their phones all day, but seven hours was fucking excessive. What’s worse, was that Aaron still didn’t give me an update on what happened!

Aaron: “Everything is going to be okay!!! Thank you for your concern. I love you!!! Let’s chat on Christmas. Xo”

That was it. Pardon me? No. I don’t want to talk about my drinking problem on Christmas. In fact, I would like to forget about all of this as soon as possible. I want to move on.

I don’t think I’ll be messaging Aaron again. It’s starting to become clear that perhaps this apartment co-op board drama isn’t as big of an issue as he let on. Of course, I don’t want this to mean me relaxing on the problem at hand. Obviously, there is an issue if I am peeing in my friend’s basement. Why is Aaron stringing me along like this, though?

If I’m being honest, which is what these journals always are, I don’t want to go to Aaron and Sonny’s wedding next summer. I had my doubts about attending to begin with. After this, I have no interest in being surrounded by all of their friends who know this “Terrible Awful” about me. Let’s not kid ourselves. Sonny has already told everyone. So, let me get this straight. I’m expected to go to the wedding, and have everyone checking in on me to make sure I am drinking water the whole time? No, thank you. Aaron’s wedding is just another reason for me to escape to California. I want to run away.

Around 7 p.m., the family went for dinner at Ashley’s and Oliver’s condo. The whole evening was actually really nice. Lots of food, lots of chatting, and lots of alcohol – none of which I drank.

One thing that has always stuck with me was when I ran into Dustin Hayes after work this past summer. I casually mentioned a bad drinking night, and how I needed to cut back on the booze. Dustin told me that I was being too hard on myself. That always seemed so odd to me. Typically, that type of reaction is not the norm when people do something bad. Right?

All of that being said, it never ceases to amaze me that the people who have seen me at some of my worst moments are the ones who continue to encourage my drinking. Natasha and Kate do it. Dan and Connor do it. Even Mom and Dad do it. Despite my numerous declines to drink tonight, Ashley and Oliver did it tonight as well. Let’s not forget that this is the couple whose wedding I blacked out at in May. What’s worse, was that I was with Ashley when I blacked out at Mariah Carey’s Las Vegas show in February, which was infamously followed by a mental breakdown over my depression in the middle of a casino. Why aren’t these people being harder on me? God. I have so many thoughts about this evening going through my mind right now.

I think about Harvey – the old man guardian angel from last weekend’s party at Austin Novak’s apartment. Harvey talked about not caring what other people think when it comes to my own sobriety. I’m still trying to jump that hurdle. I struggle with people looking at me as though something is wrong.

“Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Are you sure?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Are you positive you don’t want anything?”

“What about some wine?”

“Just water?”

“How about something small?”

Without giving Ashley and Oliver my life story and struggle, it got to a point where I admitted that I had to be “careful.”

What people fail to realize is that it’s never just one drink with me. I don’t want one drink. If I drink, I want to get fucked up. Yeah. There. I said it. I want to let loose. I want to lose control. I want to become a different person. Nobody understands that. I think that’s why I’m so hard on myself. Nobody else is ever going to be. I’m not saying they should be, but it does surprise me that some people still encourage me to drink – even after they’ve seen me passed out in a fucking gutter.

When I think back to the, “Time heals all wounds,” reference, it certainly applies to this situation. To all drinking situations, really. I mean, look at the Fire Island story. The fact that I continued to drink after that weekend is a prime example. Time passes. The embarrassment, shame, hangover, regret, sadness, and memory fades. Even though the world was ending while I was searching for my bag, everything is fine now.

I wanted to drink tonight. I wanted a big fucking glass of alcohol. That’s what scares me. The jury isn’t even out on what’s happening with Aaron and Sonny, yet I was sitting at Ashley’s kitchen counter and staring down her pitcher of sangria like I was Matilda. I wanted to move it towards me with my eyes.

Sitting here writing all of this, I still feel the same way. I want to drink, despite knowing full well how I’m going to feel afterwards. I can remember the Hangover Blues feelings of complete horror and shame. I have said to myself so many times, “This is my last drink.” Then, I’ll be drinking again a couple of weeks later. I might have just ruined someone’s life. Now, less than a week has passed, and it’s like it never happened. Well, not “never happened.” I’ll just convince myself that I won’t ever let something like that happen again.

Don’t get me wrong. I have the best of intentions. Yeah, I want to have more than one drink. I never intend on drinking to the point of blacking out, though. You know? In my mind, I am a good drinker. I’m funnier. I’m more relaxed. Then, there are those instances where I take it too far and all of that goes away.

I don’t know what’s going to happen down the road. I just want to make sure that I remain conscious of my actions, and make better decisions as a result. I am proud of myself for not drinking tonight. What happens during the rest of this weekend, though? What happens during the rest of my life? This isn’t an issue that’s going to resolve itself after one night of sobriety. I am still trying to figure out how all of it works.

Dinner wrapped up. We all drove back to the Walker’s house. Dad was drunk and hyper. I saw so much of myself in him. At times, Dad was even funny. In a way, his silliness made me think to myself, “Let him have his fun.” After all, that’s what Dad does with me. As much as I hate to admit it – I’m hating it less and less, don’t worry – I am so much like my father.

I love my family. I want them to know that, too. I also want them to see the best side of me. I’m not looking to be perfect. I just want to make my parents proud.

I kept talking to that Grindr pilot today. Even though I know he’s not right for me, I am absolutely in love with him. Hiking? What is that? Never heard of her. One can dream, though. Right? I have to take Katya’s advice. Play the game, Kurt! After all, Katya’s the one who’s actually dating a damn pilot!

Goodnight xo

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