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

August 6

August 6

You know the feeling – that horrible feeling – of waking up and hoping that everything you just experienced wasn't real? Like, having a bad nightmare of being sent to the Moon. Oh, God. I hope I'm still on Earth. Or when you dream of being late for work? Or that you missed an exam because you slept in, but really, it's Saturday? Well, today really was Saturday. But, I didn't miss any tests. I was, however, missing my fucking teeth.

I woke up slowly around 11 a.m. As I rubbed my tongue along my upper teeth, I felt a plastic casing around them. No. This wasn't real. Last night couldn't have happened. I rolled over in bed, and felt a sharp pain on the right side of my face. That's when I knew it was all real. It all happened. I had fucked up big time.

Still in a state of shock over last night's disaster, I opened my eyes and looked around my apartment. There was a box and bag of Wheat Thins crackers sprawled out on the floor, along with an open jar of peanut butter and oily clumps of the stuff slowly seeping into my hardwood floor. Also scattered across my apartment were multiple Xanax pills, as well as the prescription bottle on the floor with the cap popped off. I guess I felt a little stressed last night. Big surprise there.

I slowly rose out of bed, then looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I couldn't believe what I was looking at. I'm not sure if "Meth Addict" or "Bar Fight Victim" would be a better description, but I suppose either would give someone a good idea of my appearance. I'd never seen myself like that before. Sure enough, when I removed my mouth guard, I was missing my teeth.

I was missing my fucking teeth. I stared into the mirror in complete disbelief, unable to process what had happened, but also what was happening in that moment. How was I going to deal with this? The cuts and road burn on my face were one thing, but missing teeth? This was my worst nightmare. The nightmare of running down the sidewalk in front my childhood home, tripping over my shoelaces, falling mouth first into the cement, and breaking all of my teeth. What was I going to do?

I looked at my phone. I had messages from Dan. He was checking in to see if I was actually alive, but also to ask what was going to happen with the beach day we had planned. Well, I hadn't exactly planned on visiting Hanlan's Point looking like I had just been in a car accident, so this was going to take some thought. The first thing I knew I had to do was face the music and call Mom.

"We have a problem," I announced. "A very, very big problem."

I'm sure those aren't the words a mother wants to hear from her loose cannon son first thing on a Saturday morning, but there was no beating around the bush here.

"Oh, my God. What?" Mom asked.

That's when it all came out.

In full honesty, I told Mom everything that had happened last night. I couldn't stop crying. Through heavy breaths, I just kept repeating, "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm going to do. My teeth are gone. What am I going to do? How could this happen to me?" Mom calmed me down enough so that I could get myself together and answer my own question. What were we going to do?