7:49 PM

Today is Monday, April 28th, 2014, and I turn 24 on Thursday. I’m sitting on my roommate’s couch, covered by her dead grandma’s afghan, with thrift store clothes hanging behind me. My head has comfortably settled into the middle of them. A hanger digs into my left shoulder. It’s started to hurt, but not enough for me to do anything about it.

I lied. I just shifted, which caused it to dig in a little deeper and hurt a little more. I moved it. Now there’s another. I just can’t seem to get comfortable right now. Well, not just right now—doing anything, really. I just don’t feel comfortable.

Maybe that’s why I whipped myself up a Concerta, Citalopram, Red Bull, and weed remedy. I thought it would make me feel better—a little less jittery. It didn’t. If anything, it’s induced a bit of an emotional fit inside my head.

As I sink further into this couch, I’m waiting for 9 o’clock to roll around. That’s when I’m supposed to meet up with my drug dealers. Yes—multiple. First, my weed dealer. Gettin’ me dat loud. Then, Walgreens for my attention-deficit and sleeping meds.

I sit here listening to my roommates laugh over the laugh track of The Nanny, season one—best purchase of my life? The episode features Fran casting Grace in a play even though she isn’t the best—Grace seriously sucks. But isn’t that life? Isn’t that what I’ve learned so far?

Today, I’m on the verge of 24. Another year of my life. Another year continuing the life I’m currently living. Another year of depression, anxiety, and bankruptcy. I’m clearly not the best, so why am I not being cast?

That’s how I feel about the last year of my life. I was living the life I wanted, with the person I wanted, studying what I wanted—no meds, not so much weed—just school, love, and stability.

I’ve lost all stability in my 23rd year.

So maybe that’s what this will be about. My loss of stability. Emotional. Mental. Physical. Intellectual. And most importantly, I’ve lost stability in who I am. I’m not a stable person, and most wouldn’t think that if they saw me. Actually, most people who know me don’t know how unstable my life really is. My roommates do. My family kind of does. My ex does too.

God, these thrift store clothes smell like mothballs. I’ve shifted again and the hanger digs further into my back. So I’m going to vacate, smoke a cigarette, and come back to this in a moment.

9:59 PM

I’m starting to experience things again, but this time without him. It’s really weird—I’ve been comparing events happening now with events from this time last year. I’m looking at the changes in my life—everything that’s shifted around me—and I don’t understand how I got here.

How did I get here?

Maybe I need this to find myself again. Maybe I need to remind myself what got me here. Maybe I need to question what prompted all my actions.

But maybe I just need to remind myself that I love myself.

Faults. Flaws. Downfalls. Disillusions. Quirks. Even the ridiculous parts.

I need to show myself who I am.

10:30 PM

I’m back. One dealer was met. I didn’t have the energy to go into Walgreens. It’s more that I didn’t want to pay for my medications. I have a rough idea of how much they cost, and I just don’t want to spend it right now. I know I eventually will—but that day will be tomorrow.

Money aside, there are two other reasons I didn’t pick up my meds. One is valid. The other… not so much.

ONE: This is a new sleeping medication I haven’t taken before. If I pick it up, I know myself—I’ll be tempted to take one. I have work at 10 and want to go to the gym beforehand. I don’t want to be groggy. I didn’t go today, so I have to go tomorrow.

TWO: I’m almost ashamed to admit this because it’s kind of pitiful. I don’t pick up my medications so that when my ex asks if I did, I can say no. Saying no extends the conversation. It leads to him asking why, and then me coming up with some stupid explanation for why I didn’t complete a simple, necessary task.

It’s kind of sick.

I am kind of sick.

I don’t pick up meds to help me sleep, so I don’t sleep. Then I complain about not sleeping. All because I didn’t pick them up—just to maybe stretch a conversation by ten minutes.

I torture myself.
To further torture myself.

I shouldn’t want to talk to him—but I do. And when we do talk, all I want is to not talk to him. It just reminds me how much I love him.

I don’t even know if it’s the kind of love I think it is anymore. I think that love is gone. Truly gone. After everything that’s happened, I don’t think it’s possible for us to ever love each other completely again.

We broke each other.

To the point of no return.

We broke each other like Elaine and Benjamin—and we even had an Anne Bancroft. I feel like I might have become the Anne Bancroft. Maybe that’s why I connect with The Graduate.

I am Mrs. Robinson.

10:36 PM

Mrs. Robinson was lonely. And so am I.

But she wasn’t always lonely. There was a time she felt loved. Felt pretty. Felt wanted.

She’s washed up now—but never more beautiful.

That’s me.

I felt love. I felt passion. I felt pretty.

I wasn’t pretty then. I was 50 lbs heavier—and disgusting.

I was overlooked. I was something no one wanted. But he wanted me—he wanted me to be me. He didn’t care that I was fat. He wasn’t. He was thin. Muscular. He was everything I wanted.

A year ago, that was us.

He was a god.
I was a pig.

Now I have a decent body.
And he has an even better one.