Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 1 of 2)

May 25

May 25

I didn't sleep well last night. I woke up around 4 a.m. and was totally wired, even after reading every article on Vice and scrolling through all newsfeeds and black holes on my phone. I took another Xanax, which knocked me out around 6 a.m.

I woke up again around noon, and spent a good chunk of the day conversing with Rebecca Price to plan part of Kate's bachelorette weekend for this September in Montreal. We're both in the wedding party. After that, I did my usual round of work emails and website browsing. I was really just stalling before my post-op appointment at 3:30 p.m.

I arrived at the hospital on time. After two hours of waiting, Dr. Europia finally saw me. The good news is that she paired down my bandage. The bad news is that there's still a bandage. The other bad news is – fucking everything else!

When Dr. Europia took the dressings off of my foot, it looked fucking gnarly. I'm talking blood-soaked bandages, and a baby toe that appeared as though it had been sewn together by a second grader learning to use a needle. It was disgusting but, apparently, "in good shape," according to Dr. Europia. I still can't wear a shoe, I still can't get my foot wet, and the six-week timeline to have the pin removed is firm. Mom wheeled me out of the hospital, and I limped into the passenger seat of the car. I felt so defeated today. Every day, really.

To make matters worse, I received an email from The Clubhouse this afternoon. Robyn clarified that the position they've offered me is paid hourly, and that there will be no benefits. I also had to leave yet another message for the fucking buffoons at The Toronto Film Group, as they still haven't given me an official answer on the events contract that I interviewed for.

I didn't say much on the way home from the hospital. Or for the rest of the night, for that matter. I snapped at Mom this evening in the kitchen. She kept talking to me about a damn medical boot to buy for my foot, even after I told her to stop multiple times. I felt bad. Mom won't listen to me, though. It's like whatever I say to her, she doesn't take seriously. As if I enjoy wasting my breath in an attempt to tell Mom to stop doing things for me.

"I'll ask for help when I need it, but please don't do XYZ for me," I tell her.

Tomorrow, I'm going to try and put forth a greater effort at making things better for myself. I'll write out a list of all the things I want to do, and figure out how I can accomplish everything while I recover from this mess. I'll also take a goddamn shower. It's now been a week since my last scrubdown, and I need to shed this snakeskin.

After dinner, Mom and Dad watched their basketball game in the basement. Thank God. I stayed upstairs, and watched Aladdin in the family room. I cried. If I didn't feel trapped before this surgery, I sure do now. It's a physical layer of entrapment that's been added, though. The mental stuff – the emotional layer, the knowledge layer, the friends layer, the romantic layer – is all still there. It might even be worse now. After my movie, I went upstairs and got ready for bed.

Bryan called me tonight. We talked for a while. At this point, I don't consider myself to be in a romantic relationship with Bryan. I treat him as a friend. If Bryan wants to stick around, great. So be it. We can absolutely be friends. If Bryan wants clarification as to what we are, great. I'm happy to provide it.

Before bed, I spent a stupid amount of time reading through an online drug users forum. Yes. You read that correctly. It was so weird. The users wouldn't even refer to themselves in their messages, for the sake of anonymity. So, it would be something like:

"SWIM [Someone Who Isn't Me] took 40mg of Xanax, and then took a flight to Bangkok, which SWIM doesn't remember. Then, SWIM got distracted, left their suitcase and passport in the airport, and woke up with a girl SWIM doesn't know in their bed. But, at least they both had their clothes on!"

The whole reason I ended up on the forum in the first place was to figure out if I could safely take another pill of Xanax. What's the maximum safe dosage? It turned out, according to this highly reliable "SWIM" on the internet – because, you know, everything on the internet is 100% accurate – that there isn't a lethal dose. You're more likely to blackout and hurt yourself by hitting your head or falling asleep in water than you are to die from the medication itself.

While on the forum, I also learned that in some drug communities, "spinning" someone (i.e., "SWIM was spun") is when you give a person who has fucked you over (stealing, rape, etc.) an insane amount of LSD as punishment. As another SWIM said, "I would rather be beaten to within an inch of my life than be forced to take that much LSD." Ah, the internet. See? I'm getting more smarter every day.

I'm going to try getting back in the gym tomorrow. No running, obviously. But, it would be nice to keep up with my crunches and floor exercises. Unlike my Xanax, my daily intake of chocolate and banana popsicles has most definitely reached lethal heights.

Goodnight xo