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

July 4

July 4

And so, the regret begins.

I got absolutely no sleep last night. I think I passed out for a few hours, but only after I devoured a box of Popeyes chicken in bed – the same way that crazy lady did on the Greyhound bus from Las Vegas to Palm Springs in 2013. After that, I woke up and couldn't fall back to sleep.

I waited out the rest of my early morning in bed. I texted some friends, and tweeted a lot about how I thought Wendy Williams was, "a hot fucking mess," and how much I hated dogs. I also proactively blocked guys I've never met, but don't like on social media – only to realize that half of them were already blocked to begin with. When 7 a.m. arrived, I rolled out of bed and got myself together for work. Headache wise, I was surprisingly fine. Nothing like last year's 24-hour hangover.

In its own way, today was very messy. I was dealing with a bad drug hangover. In other words: a comedown. I can't believe I did mushrooms and MDMA yesterday. Like, even I think that was excessive. And that's not even accounting for the liquor cabinet I ingested. In the moment, I didn't think twice about doubling down on my drugs. I simply took a huge mushroom, chewed it up, and swallowed. No questions asked. Looking back, I actually don't even remember taking the MDMA.

The whole day – the whole weekend, really – was a total blur. I could barely walk this morning. I looked cute, because I hadn't eaten anything in about four days, but I was shaking like a crack addict. At this point, that wasn't much of a stretch for me.

I got to work at 10 a.m., and stayed until 6 p.m. There were numerous points during the day when I thought I was going to have to leave early, throw up, have Robyn tell me that my sweat smelled like alcohol, or shit my pants at my desk. I just kept drinking water and pretending to work. In reality, I was on my phone texting people all day.

I haven't heard from Connor or Evan in a while. I have a suspicion one or both of them are mad at me. At this point, I'm not sure why. At least, not when it comes to Connor. Evan is probably mad that I made out with the same guy I cock-blocked him from. Fuck. I really am a hot mess. I also had about four unsaved numbers in my phone, which I spent the better part of my day trying to attach names to.

After leaving the office to grab some life-saving tacos at lunch, I finished a few more hours at work and then walked home to try and get some exercise in. The worst thing about today was the overwhelming feeling of anxiety and depression. The Hangover Blues hit me hard. To have the Hangover Blues on a Sunday is bad enough as it is. Having them on a Monday was just fucking bleak.

Naturally, my anxiety began as soon as I woke up, with my usual thought process of how much I hate this fucking job. I really loathe it. My role just seems like such a dead end for me. That's not to say there isn't opportunity within The Clubhouse itself, but I've come to the conclusion that I simply don't want to work there anymore.

The Clubhouse is kind of gross, actually. Everyone who works there seems to either hate the organization, or hate another employee. There's constant bitching. It's hot, it's sweaty, and there are fruit flies everywhere. Robyn eats like a horse, she had never heard of "Telephone" by Lady Gaga until this afternoon, and she spilled her fucking pasta salad all over our office floor today, which ironically smelled the same as the horrible food the kitchen feeds the staff. How one makes macaroni and cheese brown is beyond me – as is the fact that there are chunks of ham in it. I don't want to work for an organization that thinks it's socially acceptable to feed people that mess. It's just not kosher.

And, because I'm not finished complaining yet, I've been scheduled to work the front desk from 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. on Friday. No, honey. We don't do that.

So, here we are. Along with the depression about my job comes the crippling anxiety of what a potential next step might be. That's around the time I begin to freak out, shake more, and then start to sweat and/or get the shits. Today was not cute, by any means.

I walked home, got Chipotle on the way, and refueled at the Witch Cave. I wanted to feel somewhat accomplished this evening, so I vacuumed and mopped the apartment to erase the stench of what felt like 30 people passing through my home this weekend. Come to think of it, as I write this journal entry from my bed, I'm realizing that my sheets probably aren't the cleanest either.

When I left the Witch Cave this morning, the gay couple down the hall got in the elevator with me. As soon as I heard their door open, I knew it was going to be awkward. I asked the guys how their Pride was. All they responded with was, "Loud. Very LOUD," as they both looked at me judgingly and let out an uncomfortable, synchronized chuckle. Yeah, no kidding. Oy.

After moments like this weekend, I'm consistently left with the same feelings of regret and shame. It's because I act absolutely ridiculous. My social media is all over the place, there are videos of me all over the internet – which I posted – and I can't even remember all of the random strangers I interacted with since Thursday. I mean, that's a hot fucking mess. I was blackout drunk for four days straight! I don't even want to smell alcohol again. I woke up to a champagne flute filled with gin on the shelf above my bed. I'm not sure what that was about, but I know it wasn't cute.

By all means, I feel like I should be dead at this point. I actually had that thought this morning, as I was getting ready for work. How do I keep getting these second, third, and sixtieth chances?

Thursday, I was a blacked-out disaster.

Friday, I passed out on top of my bed with Alison – which has its own set of creepy vibes, given the fact that she dated Phillip.

Saturday, I was sniffing coke like Lindsay Lohan.

Sunday, I was putting whatever I could find into my body, with absolutely no regard for the potential consequences of mixing substances.

I think of all the stupid shit I've done in my youth. Hell, I should be dead from the drunk driving alone. Then, I'll drink some water, and remember that as much as I dwell on the past, nothing is going to change what happened. No amount of money, hoping, wishing, or praying can change yesterday. I only hope that I can figure out a way to change my reckless behavior before it's too late. I don't want to drink for a while. I've definitely got to keep a low profile for the next little bit.

Did a few exercises, masturbated for the first time in forever, and then went to bed. My headache is coming back, but I don't want to take any more drugs. Even if they are prescription.

Overall, it was a pretty damn good Pride. I wish I could have hung out with the boys on Sunday. However, this weekend was also one of my last of my moments with Kyle and Alison before they skip town. I'll miss them.

I'm getting sad now. I need to go to bed.

Goodnight xo