I wanted to give you better than this. I have a detailed list of backlogged updates, and my intention was to have them all to you before I started working. But my first day is tomorrow and you haven’t even seen the second city I visited.
The next post in the queue was meant to be a funny list of travel tips. You’re not getting that today and here’s why:
This weekend I suffered a mild emotional breakdown. It hit between Saturday and Sunday around 4 AM when the entire world was asleep. I woke up around 3, which has become something of a pattern for me since I’ve returned to this continent. Most nights I can roll over and reunite with sleep within a few minutes. This time, however, a family of jitters rented out a penthouse suite in my chest cavity. The night before I’d gotten into bed at 9:37 PM. I was recovering from a cold, high on weed-infused tea, and procrastinating the dozen or so writing projects I have started but can’t seem to make progress on. Surely this state of impermeable alertness was punishment.
I’d been in this house over a week and my suitcases still sat in a corner, spilling their plushy innards onto the floor. Thus, unpacking seemed a worthy use of my time.
Living alone has benefits, not the least of which is being able to blast Florence + The Machine without the slightest consideration for other human beings. I made the bed to give myself a flat surface upon which I could thrust every article of clothing I own.
Somewhere between putting dresses on hangers and folding Superman underwear, I was struck with the reality and the permanence of my decision. Also, I realized if I want to get laid this year, I’ll have to drive somewhere. No more ten-minute metro rides to DickTown. No more bottomless wine on dates. No more late-night burritos in lieu of hookups.
This sent me down a teary vortex for around two hours. During this time I: missed Madrid, missed my friends, questioned my decision to come home, chastised myself for my inability to finish a goddamn thing in my life, sent a Tinder message, told myself I’ll never be a writer, ate hummus, wondered if anyone will ever love me, brushed my teeth.
Around 6 AM I managed to fall asleep again, and was greeted with dreams about decapitating home intruders with a serrated knife. The whole episode rendered me incapable of leaving the house for the entirety of yesterday. I spent most of the day chasing sleep and online shopping for a therapist in my area. It seems there aren’t any that accept my insurance, which I only have for another two months anyhow. Happy birthday to me. My quest to improve my mental health seems to be leaving me less mentally healthy.
I’m better today, but I’m still in the midst of the shame spiral and fighting with myself to get out of my own way and get some fucking work done.
When I arrived in Massachusetts a little over a week ago, my mood seemed to lift immediately. I thought the worst of it was over.
But being back here is fucking hard. Really fucking hard. I expected this. I am smart enough to know it will be ok. But I could still use a hug.
And hey, if you want to see happier updates, I could use a bit of accountability. If you like reading this, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and remind me to keep writing. I know you’re out there, fans. (We need to think of a cute name for you like GaGa’s Little Monsters, or Justin’s Beliebers, but, like, sluttier.) I know you’re out there craving new shit but not wanting to bother me about it. You’re not bothering me. I respond well to a little ass-kicking.
Oh, PS, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my first (and only) WordPress subscriber. You know who you are. xoxo