Friday, April 2, 2010

sadness is a slippery fish

2 weeks ago...

Tired. My fifth day in a row. Working this much is draining. Bored and tired, I sit by the door. A group of young oil boys comes in, sits in front VIP, one little pregnant girl with them, laid back and comfortable, even here. One of the floor dudes comes over and tips me off that they have ordered a bottle of Grey Goose vodka.. after a few minutes to let them get settled, my hustle buddy and I go make friends.

Several shots later, I'm pulling one after another back for a dance or 4. Hannah and I do a double. I dance for the pregnant chick- she wants to hang out sometime. I leave most of the walls up.

The vodka lubricates my tongue, and the club is busy. I pound, pound, pound, pulling guy after guy to the back. I head home exhausted and happy.

We are supposed to go to a potluck at his friend's place. I feel nauseous. People can't meet the real me, rough and dirty and awkward. I panic and cry. We don't go.

Last night:
I drag my ass into work. After scheduling drama last week, I didn't work at all. I lay on my couch. I went to the gym a couple times. I drank a lot. I made the effort, showed up, enjoyed myself. I did my show, played on stage, smiled. Talked to a few people on the floor.

In truth, I just don't care. I can't bring myself to move, to get off the floor, to dream or push or even push the buttons. I am only upset about the fact I am so apathetic. There is nothing to be sad about, I just can't move.

"You really only have two choices," he says. "You can deal with it yourself, or we can call the asylum in the morning and they can take care of everything." His words are joking.

what he really says, is, "I have tried to fix you, and now I am going to give up. You aren't fixed and that's your own fault for not trying hard enough."

I laugh. I am pragmatic about things, but I am tired. The reality is I cannot fix myself, I need professional help, but I am too tired to find it. So I laugh, the short, dry, humourless laugh of the desperate. I ask for help to find a middle ground.

Later, he grumbles about something, and then lets it go. "There. See how I did that? I dealt with it. You should just deal with it."

For a moment, I panic. I run circles around with a knife bleeding and screaming. I lock down the tears, the panic, the expression. I'm just too tired. Instead, I let everything drain away, dissociating further than I have in a long while, staring at the ceiling unable to move.

A line from a song I can't remember repeats itself in my head, and I contemplate the perfect suicide. The one where no one I know has to find my body, clean the blood out of the bathtub, pay for the funeral. I wonder what a lethal dose of alcohol and ketamine is. The song repeats, repeats, I try to remember to take a few shallow breaths.

Eventually sleep comes. I have lots of reasons not to want to die. I'm just so, so tired.

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