I’m writing to you midst sin.
I thought I could go without a big old breakdown, but apparently no. I fell into a burrito and it pains me to write this, as much as my stomach hurts, more maybe. I’m going to do damage control tomorrow. Eggs for breakfast, seeing my mother for a pep talk. Walking outside in the free air. Not ripping myself into a thousand shreds because I wasn’t strong enough.
What precipitated this bullshit? This stupidity and hunger and ultimate betrayal of my plans, of even last night’s entry? Nothing really. I waited two hours after work, caked on another layer of makeup until I thought I was went to a party. I got a drink. I talked to the person who invited me whom I secretly adore, maybe, several times, talked to a few other people. Got my awkward picture taken awkwardly with said adored person. Since there were no chairs, a blaring piano with kids screaming along with the piano player, I stood there. Stood there with my coat in my hand and my drink in the other in my pretty little outfit, feeling entirely surreal and ridiculous. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a room where I didn’t know more than a handful of people and that fact bothered me. Four years now, in my very social, very peppy job, I’m used to this situation. I pretty well zoned into the nothingness. I didn’t know what to do. Who to talk to. There was no place to sit down.
At some point, the restauranteur came over and checked on me, pressed against the glass window staring apparently like some kind of party zombie. He thought he was funny, asked me why I was shy, if I was happy with my drink and took my coat. With my keys and ID in the pocket with this insouciant, red-eyed, puffy and long face. I knew it looked like a security blanket, but maybe in part, that’s what it was. Person who invited me, seated with a bunch of ladies I’d like to deride but what is the point? Taking his picture with his arm around someone, drinking wine, leaning in. I felt like someone smacked me in the face with reality. That I don’t know how to do this or be here. It felt so loud and tight in there, staring at everyone’s backs as they stood around me talking to other people and I was so stupid to think this would in any way be some kind of positive stroke to my ego.
Eventually, I paid my tab for the drink, pretty much stole my coat out of the unguarded coat check, figured I was good to drive on half a vodka and cranberry, and fled. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Why would I? I couldn’t and can’t even imagine being missed.
So I told myself that I was going to eat some carbs anyway, I had planned on an appetizer as a treat for this social activity, in this lovely, lovely restaurant so getting a carb-loaded dinner would be okay. A treat for an invisible girl. Chipotle. I didn’t need the rice. Or the beans. I could just get the bowl. But by the time I was up at the counter, I’d let myself know in some unspoken manner, that the shitty feelings of always being that girl in the corner that didn’t matter to anyone had to be dealt with fast. That it was nuclear meltdown time if someone didn’t get that rod squared away and fast. So I ordered the dead baby, silver pill, bag of frozen kitten burrito and hied away, back to this bed and this miserable little existence and I ate it like I was bandaging some internal hemorrhage with every bite. And the stupidity of which I addressed this behavior some entry a few weeks ago, it was all present in me. I care, but I couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t stop it.
Now, the justification so fucking omnipresent it was sticking its little flechette into my forehead has mysteriously vanished.
I am dreading Mr. Scale tomorrow. I’m dreading my deranged emotional response will turned two or three pounds overnight. I’m dreading that I’ll flail for a while with this as an excuse.
I have to get my head on straight. I really like him, but I am so flummoxed by the fact that he could like me back (I am so scared to let change happen in this aspect of my life) that I act ridiculous and when he leaves to talk to someone else, I feel like the door is getting slammed in my face. That I’m not a girl to sit down and talk with. None of this needs to be the way it is. I just feel really weepy. I don’t know if this helped to talk about. I really don’t. I kind of feel like the ugliest girl on the internet.
Tomorrow, not perfection, but better. Water. Walking. Pep-talk. Clean-up. Wash your face. Sit on your hands. You wigged out. It’s okay. It’s okay.
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