maybe i should lay off the sauce

Last week was exhaustingly and entertainingly and emotionally-drainingly (not a word, I know) long. Perhaps that had something to do with my decision to stay out past 2 a.m. on four out of seven nights, consume an entire bottle of wine on one of those nights alone, and down enough scotch over the course of the other three to constitute at least a full fifth (if not more). All of this, and a full work schedule, and soccer, and classes, and the lingering effects of a cold that just wouldn’t quit. It’s no wonder I woke up early this morning and still managed to do little more than a single load of laundry. Oh, and fight irrationally with my sister over an empty box of granola. Sweet.

Lately, I’ve felt like I can’t really breathe, or stop long enough to just enjoy an uninterrupted, anxiety-free moment. It feels like I’m always busy. Always. Even when I’m not. Even on the days I don’t work, or go to school, or have other obligations. Because, my mind, it’s constantly racing, keeping me up at night, making me crazy with all the things I haven’t done and should have, or want to do but can’t, or things I do even though I don’t want to. Maybe I’m intentionally distracting myself with the Busy and the Always Something, afraid of what I’ll find if I stop to confront who I am.

I’m tired. Tired of not stopping, of trying so damn hard to be different things to different people, to be the person those people need me to be. I have good friends, friends who love me and think I’m amazing. And I know this because they tell me so. But I’m usually too wrapped up in believing I’m falling short to appreciate that I’m loved for who I already am. I’m surrounded by people, and I go home every night feeling more alone than the night before, more misunderstood and unloved. Even though I’m not, and I know it. Or—at the very least—I don’t have to be.

I have an uncanny ability to keep people at a distance. I like to seek out approval, acceptance, convince others I’m worth their affections, their interest, then remain safely disconnected and emotionally restrained. Pretty absurd, right? But at least I worry less this way about the truth being exposed. The truth that I’m not actually that fun or that smart or that interesting to know. Because I’m insanely paranoid that’s what my truth really looks like. It’s horrifying.

Maybe what I need is a good vacation. It’s been over a year since my last one. Or maybe I should just lay off the scotch for a while. Or maybe both.

And a lobotomy. I’ve heard those work wonders.