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

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December 30

December 30

I really don’t enjoy the week between Christmas and New Year’s. It’s as though you’re stuck in some weird purgatory. You’re expected to carry on with your regular routine, but with an endless supply of food, alcohol, and lethargy from the aforementioned substances. I don’t like it. Uh, uh. No, I don’t.

This mornting’s alarm was brought to us by multiple text messages from Mom, reminding me about the hotel’s free breakfast. As suspected, this only led to Mom calling my room less than five-seconds after I pressed send on my reply. Once again, I explained to Mom that I wasn’t going to be joining her and Dad for breakfast. After that, Mom proceeded to list all of the food she had in her room. Yeah. I feel like garbage for complaining about this. I’m a spoiled brat, living in absolute luxury with parents who would do anything for me. Yet, all I do is complain about how I am being smothered. Ugh.

My love and appreciation for my parents is undying. I would give absolutely everything in my life for them. So, how do I explain my frustration in situations like these? Do I just shut up and deal with it? I can’t. I feel as though I am under constant surveillance. Where I’m going. What I’m doing. Who I’m talking to. Who I’m seeing. What I’m eating. I hate it. Every time I try to explain my frustration to Mom and Dad, they’ll either concede, “I know, I know,” or get defensive and deny everything.

I’m not fucking making this up, people! Stop asking me what I want to eat. Stop fucking asking me what I want to eat! I don’t want to fucking eat. I don’t even want to think about food. If you continue to shove my biggest insecurity down my throat, we are going to have a serious problem on our hands. I can’t do this much longer.

Amidst a long conversation about cereal, Mom asked me about that damn H&M faux fur coat I had been searching for in New York City. I never ended up finding the mongrel, but figured I would call some of the Toronto store locations and try my luck. Well, it turned out that there was one miracle left for me in 2016. Much to my surprise, the Queen Street West H&M had the fucking jacket. After all of that, I found my goddamn coat.

Since Mom had something to do in the city as well, we took the truck downtown and I picked up my preciouses. At this point, it was more of a statement than anything else. The principal of it, dahhhling! I didn’t care if the damn thing looked good. I didn’t even care if it fit me. I was buying the coat. Fortunately, this statement came with some benefits. Not only did the coat fit, but it also looked great. Following a few more stops downtown – including a lunch break at Otto’s Berlin Döner in Kensington Market – we drove home.

While parked in some pretty abusive traffic, Mom told me that Dad has been finding it difficult to talk with me these days. Honestly, the confession didn’t surprise me. I suppose I was a little taken aback when Mom confronted me on my recent behavior, but it’s not like I’m out to get Dad. Lately, he’s just been pushing a lot of my buttons. I haven’t been reacting the way Dad wants, which results in a lot of tension between us. I feel more comfortable talking with Mom than I do with Dad. It’s always been that way. I love Dad. I’ll ask him for help with a lot of things that Mom doesn’t know about. Unfortunately, I’ve also found that I have less and less in common with Dad as I grow older.

A lot of the time, I find Dad’s attitude to be very uninformed – both in hot topics, but also when it comes to his personal relationships. Dad can be a complete monster, then turn around and want to have a friendly conversation about my future goals, plans, and interests. That’s not how I operate. I can’t move past that type of aggressive behavior so quickly.

All of that being said, what saddens me the most is that I see so many of Dad’s character traits in myself. It scares me to think that I often behave the same way Dad does. I lash out, then turn around and feel bad right away. I hate it. I’m far from perfect. This, I know. However, I can easily say that my hot and cold behavior is my worst trait.

When it comes to talking with Dad, I feel like I am being interrogated. As if, the answers I give him aren’t going to be enough. By constantly pointing out the faults in my plans, it feels as though Dad is trying to sabotage my life. When I talk to Dad, I lose a lot of my confidence.

After stopping at Chapters to return the unwanted Christmas gifts I received – sorry, Santa – we arrived back at the Hilton. Following a short hang out with Mom and Tabitha in their suite, I returned to my room and tried on some of the clothes I bought downtown. Of course, it wasn’t long before I was smoking, masturbating, and passing out. Seems to be the norm these days, which is pretty pathetic. I had plans to visit the gym and do a lot of writing. I didn’t accomplish any of them.

When I woke up, it was because Mom and Dad had called me for dinner plans. Here we go again.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “I don’t want to eat out again.”

My parents pulled the same trick they always do.

“That’s alright,” Dad said.

“Maybe you could just order a drink and appetizer?” Mom compromised.

Oy. Do you see? This is how it works.

“I’m really not hungry,” I confirmed.

“Well, it would be nice just to spend some time together,” Mom replied.

That was it. The final nail in the coffin. The moment I let out a sigh of defeat and gave in. It’s guilt. Our relationship is based on guilt. At times like these, I realize why I feel so guilty every time I say goodbye to my parents. Fuck, man.

The three of us ended up going to Milestone’s. Naturally, we all had a three-course meal. Although I was a bit more talkative near the end of dinner, I was still slightly baked at the beginning. When the hostess placed us under some horrific interrogation-style lighting, I wasn’t in the mood to raise my head.

Dinner was over. At the request of Mom and Dad, I loaded up a bag with food from their fridge and returned to my own room. Now, it was time to face the music. Well, more like the dial tone. I had to make a phone call that was long overdue. I had to call Uncle Jack.

After sending a heads-up text, Uncle Jack let me know that he was just about to leave the house with Jake. Aunty Kelly would still be home, though. This was perfect. This was fucking perfect! I called. Before I even began my first sentence, Aunty Kelly cleared the air.

“So,” she said. “When are you coming?”

I loved it.

Aunty Kelly and I talked for a while. I pitched my California visit as three to four months – knowing it will be a minimum of four – and explained the entire situation. Although I told Aunty Kelly that I expected her to run it by Uncle Jack, she insisted that there wouldn’t be an issue.

“We would absolutely love to have you,” she said.

This was so great. Not that I was expecting a negative result from the phone call, but now the California discussion was finally out of the way. After all these months of waiting, I finally feel as though I can look further into the future. You better believe I’m fucking ready for it.

Following some sit-ups to combat the chicken, fries, and burger I inhaled at dinner, I sparked up and got down and dirty with my left hand. Now, it’s time for bed.

Goodnight xo

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