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

October 12

October 12

And just like that, it's back to reality. You know, after all of those journal entries I wrote about Logan at the beginning of the year, I have really come to loathe that word. "Reality." Ugh.

For whatever reason, my behavior and experiences with dating this year have been constantly racing through my mind lately. The memories creep up, and all I can do is shake my head in disbelief. Was I in some sort of a haze for eight months? I'm dead serious. When I look back on certain situationships, I can't believe the way I acted with so many guys.

I think about the horrible, garbage, vomit and anxiety-inducing experience that was Logan.

I think about whatever the fuck Bryan was.

I think about moving on to a string of disposables, many of whom I threw myself at with more desperation than Tara Reid at her Sharknado 6 audition.

Finally, I cap it all off by thinking about how I told RX that I loved him, only to have nothing reciprocated. Not to mention, the slew of horrific drunken and drug-ridden behaviors that resulted in permanent damage to my teeth and self-esteem. I mean, what the fuck is going on? Or, what was going on? Things are different now. I have basically curbed all romantic behavior, and will probably never drink past my limit again for fear of losing my own life.

I know I wrote the other night about not living with regret. However, there are still so many moments I think about that I wish I could go back and erase. Press delete, you know? Do things over and hope for a better result, even though the reality is that some of those lessons needed to be learned the hard way. Without them, I probably would've continued to make the same mistakes over and over again. Still, I wish I could learn to forget the pain and move past the trauma.

Anyway, reality. Let's get back to it.

I woke up, made my lunch, and went to work. Within a couple of hours, I was already over it. I spent the rest of my day calculating how much money I could make and save up before the end of the year. I'm ready to get the hell out of The Clubhouse. Tomorrow, I will also be letting my landlord know that I want to move out of the Witch Cave. I want this.

I also want to lose weight. Surprisingly, I weighed myself this morning at the same 190 pounds that I've been clocking in at since August. While the number itself is still hideous, the fact that I didn't gain any weight at Walt Disney World after a weekend of gluttony is both a pleasant surprise and a testament to my fucked-up metabolism.

Nonetheless, my diet began again today. This recent crash course includes removing dinner from the menu, and scaling back on pretty much everything else as we get closer to Halloween. As much as this diet is about looking good in my Mariah Carey costume, I need this Halloween push so that I don't have to squeeze into my regular clothes anymore. So help me God, I will not start buying size 34 pants. No fucking way.

After work, I went to the gym and did my thing. For some reason, the whole routine was excruciatingly painful. I used to be able to run steadily for over an hour and a half. Now, it's a miracle if I can do even a third of that. It's so hard on my feet. I don't know why. Still, I have to push myself. I know that if I can make this weight loss happen, I'll regain some of the confidence that I am so badly missing.

I got home at 9 p.m., and ended up eating sour candy in bed while watching Harry Potter until 11:30 p.m. After that, I masturbated. Talk about a routine. Oy.

My focus right now is to lose this damn weight. I will watch Mariah's "Heartbreaker" music video every morning when I wake up if that helps to motivate me. I need a constant reminder that food is not my friend.

No more grilled cheeses.

No more dinners.

No more anything.

Fuck. This is going to suck.

Goodnight xo