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

October 13

October 13

Tonight's going to be a quick one.

Rolled out of bed this morning, did my thing, and then waited a half-hour for the subway to regain power so that it could snake through the same tunnels and take me to the same stop, only so I could then get on the same streetcar and begin my workday doing fuck all once again.

My morning routine doesn't stop when I finish making my lunch or taking my shower. Every day is filled with the same mundane tasks that are slowly driving me insane. I've said it before, but sitting at my desk and working – if you can call it that – towards someone else's dream for 40+ hours every week kills me. Maybe it's not even that. I just wish I had something that I was passionate about. A calling I could really delve into. Perhaps then, my days wouldn't feel like I am throwing away precious time.

I think about dying a lot. Not killing myself – just dying. Death, and what it will be like when everything is over. What will I have to show for my life? Will it all have been worth it? Will I have lived a full life of love and experiences? Right now, I don't think I can answer those questions positively. Not entirely, at least.

I punched out at work, climbed out of the depths of hell, and skipped to the gym in a relatively good mood. The sun was shining, and I no longer had to listen to Big Bird ramble on about the same projects she's been squawking about for the last four months. Jesus. I just typed out "seven" months. Has it really only been four months? Oy. It hasn't even been a full four months. Oh, God. I am so ready for this to be over.

The gym was alright. I made it a bit further on my run today, but still feel like a complete fat ass. I clocked in at 190 pounds again this morning, but usually it takes my body a couple of days to settle down after a binge fest. The longer the binge fest, the longer the recovery. You know, once I've digested the 1,200 pounds of food that I ingested last weekend. We'll get there.

The thing is, there's not much else I can do at this point. Apart from abandoning food altogether, of course. Mind you, that will probably become a reality soon enough. I'm eating about 1,000 calories a day and burning more than that amount at the gym with my regular routine. Plus, I'm kind of maxing out my time at the gym as it is. I spend over two hours working out every day, and get home at 9 p.m. each night. At what point do I finally start to win this game? It's annoying, but I just have to maintain this. Eventually, it will pay off. Fuck. It has to.

No gym crush sightings this week so far, FYI.

Oh, another thing. I picked up tickets to TIFF's BOOMBOX event on the way home from work for Natasha, Kate, and myself. It'll be fun. The all-inclusive party is October 27, and it's Star Trek-themed. I've also promised myself that I will be on my absolute best behavior. This is really important for me, because it's my one and only shot this year to network inside TIFF Bell Lightbox. You can bet your ass I'm not going to be getting my ass thrown out onto King Street West while blacked out and wearing a blue wig and leather tank top. No, thank you!

After the gym, I schlepped home, unpacked my bag, and completely disregarded my plan to wash dishes and prep my food for tomorrow. Instead, I crawled into bed with a bowl of dry cereal and watched yet another Harry Potter movie while I scrolled through Instagram – the latter of which is also known as entering a shame spiral of ex-lover creeping.

Why do I do this to myself? I creeped just about everyone I could think of on Instagram tonight. At the end of it all, I felt so shitty about myself. It might have been the movie, too – Half Blood Prince isn't the most uplifting film in the Harry Potter series – but I felt so low and alone after that session. Unhappy, defeated, bitter, angry, sad – everything I don't want to be. I turned off the movie, put on Chicago, and began to feel much better – and all that jazz.

I wonder if a lot of this unhappiness has to do with my pride? I mean, I know some of my depression has to do with my lack of confidence right now, but I think that's associated with me realizing that my life is not where I want it to be. A part of me is embarrassed to let others see that, but I also know that I am my own worst critic. I'm hardest on myself. When I analyze my life, and see that I am unhappy with my work life, love life, and body, the confidence disappears – and so do I.

I haven't had a social outing with Connor or Dan in two months. The same goes for a lot of other friends, too. When I get like this, I don't want people to see me. I'm ashamed that I can't get it together. As things improve, my confidence returns and so does Kurt. I suppose the problem is not letting that confidence grow too large, to the point that I then let the other things get out of control again – i.e., what happened this summer. I'm on the mend. I'll get it together soon. Things are slowly returning to positive positions.

Before bed, I masturbated and then read a variety of stupid magazine articles/interviews featuring 22-year-old gay guys running their mouths. Now, I'm about to turn off the lights for the night.

I can't stop thinking about what that lady at Walt Disney World said to me. If only I could get my body together, maybe I could use my looks to advance any sort of "career" I might have, or at least let them lead me in a new direction. I don't know if I'm ready to go down that road again, though. I have a tough skin, but I'm not sure it's tough enough for the "agency" world. One step at a time, I guess.

One thing I am proud of is the fact that I've now been weed-free for over a month. I've also actively avoided any sort of dating for even longer. Although, that didn't require much work, if I'm being honest. Still, it's nice to not have to juggle romance with everything else that's going on in my life right now.

Goodnight xo