I use the holidays...
as a time to step out of my usual routines. I don’t think about the second bottle of wine I’m ordering. The third slice of my mom's sweet potato pie I'm about to shovel down my throat, the pack of Camel Lights that will eventually end up in my purse. All my pseudo secret bad habits are out in the open until January 1st. I always found this time a year a bit overwhelming, so doing things that I considered out of control felt comforting. I’m trash with no one to tell me “no.” I reel myself back in when “I” see fit. But something felt different this year.
It’s hard for me to describe my 2019. If I had to describe it in one word that word would be “crying.” An activity that I like to avoid at all costs. I cried alone in my bedroom after yelling at my ex-boyfriend. I cried while walking to a second 4th of July party because the first party had my ex-bf there...with his new girlfriend. I cried in New Orleans in front of Michelle Obama as she spoke about self-worth. I cried alone in my hotel room in Miami during a work trip, I was a battling sickness and was completely overwhelmed but didn’t want anyone to know. I cried in a bar bathroom right before I hosted one of my first comedy nights because I thought the night would be a failure. I slightly cried on the subway after I convinced myself I ruined my chances with the first guy I genuinely liked after my ex. I thought I was ready for a new adventure. I was wrong. These moments good or bad chipped at me in a way that was extremely uncomfortable. I spent the better half of my 30′s cultivating my world, my system, and most importantly my emotions. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing was working.
So now we have the holidays and emotionally I was a wreck. I stepped the fuck out of my routines with reckless abandonment and was determined to end 2019 numb. Any food, liquor, and occasional drug that was available to me I would consume. I saw no reason to “reel it in” or “work on myself.” I was tired. Friday night I went out and I’m sure I had a blast but don’t remember much of it. I woke up Saturday morning with my stomach in knots and my head pounding. I stumbled out of bed and saw the trail of clothes/shoes that started from my bedroom to the bathroom. There was dried vomit in my sink. I don’t remember throwing up. I finally saw myself in the mirror only to see smeared eyeliner and lipstick on my face. I always wash my face right before I go to bed. That bothered me the most.
It dawned on me that I had appointments in the early afternoon. I had a therapy session downtown and then my cleaning lady was coming right after. I crawled into the shower, brushed my teeth, put on my black hoodie, and called an uber. Every turn and bump from the car made feel sick. I was relieved to get some fresh air after getting out of the car. The security guard asked me “Yo..you good?” as he took my ID so I can enter the building. “Yeah, I’m good. Just not a morning person.” as I tried to muster a fake smile. “He smirked and said...it’s 1pm.”
My therapist was in the bathroom while I was buzzing the door to gain entrance to her office. She was probably smoking a cigarette but didn’t want to tell me. I could smell it on her when she greeted me at the door. The smell made my stomach turn. I got to her office and I could immediately smell the combination of Frebreeze, a portable heater, and cigarette smoke. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to last in her office. She wanted to start the session asking me about the holidays and how I spent it. All I could think about was if I didn’t get fresh air in 2 minutes I was going to throw up all over her couch. I squirmed and rubbed one side of my temple as I described Christmas morning at my sister's house. I felt beads of sweat on my forehead. All I needed to do was survive 15 more minutes, then I can run out of the building and puke somewhere. She stopped midway of the session and asked was I okay. That I seemed preoccupied and distant. Then out of nowhere, I cried. Through my tears, I said, “I can’t take this anymore..this is all too much!” She thought I was having an anxiety attack, I just wanted to leave the smelly room. I started to apologize for my random outburst but she insisted there was nothing for me to be sorry about. Those emotions, whatever they were would eventually go away, that I have to let them run its course. I can’t control how I feel but any bad feelings won’t seal my faint or determine my worth. That was nice of her to say, even though what I really wanted was fresh air.
After my therapy session, I managed to walk myself to a local coffee shop without vomiting all over myself and got home just in time to let in the cleaning lady. I laid in bed with a hot towel on my face the majority of her stay, until she kicked me out to clean my bedroom. By 5pm I started to feel better.
I guess my reckless abandonment finally caught up with me, but I didn’t mind that the last time I cried in 2019 was because I was severely hungover at my therapist's office. In fact, I thought it was a bit funny. It’s impossible to be numb without facing consequences. I should’ve just told her the truth, told her what was really going on with me.
And there you have it. I think I discovered my life lesson.
2019 I was hungover and didn’t tell a single soul, so for that, I suffered.
2020 I need to start asking folks to open up the god damn window.
