One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four – I suck down drinks with a wince until I’m drunk enough to suck ‘em down and not wince. It’s Friday, the start of the weekend, and that means I’ve got a full week of shit to forget about, just like every other weekend that ever has been and probably ever will be. Tonight I won’t remember that exam I failed on Tuesday or that on Wednesday I cheated on my girlfriend for the second time. By midnight I won’t remember exactly how many drinks I’ve had or exactly what bar I’m at. I’ll forget that I was late on my rent payment yet again this month due to my total inability to save money for important things.

I’ll become the here and the now and the music and the lights and the laughter and the touching and the friendship and the youth. For a short period I’ll take my life into my own hands.

The thing about alcohol, though, is that it’s called a depressant for a reason. Once I come down, I’ll find myself down some alley or on some curb, my head in my hands and my girl rubbing my back and doing her best to stop my tears. But I won’t stop crying because all of a sudden I remember that exam I failed which is just the latest of many keeping me from graduating. I remember my continuing infidelity, my financial instability. But I especially remember the drunken car crash that killed my brother and left me without a scratch.

He was going to be a dad. He never knew. Kaila is 18 weeks old now, and she will never forgive me when she’s grown. Neither will her mother, or my own. My dad hasn’t spoken to me in over six months. He hates me, and I would hate me, too. I do hate me. I can’t blame any of them.

All I can do is try to forget, one drink at a time, one night at a time.

Tomorrow I can try again.

I’ve been struggling for the past few days, as if my text posts didn’t enumerate that clearly enough. It’s been a combination of a few things, and I’ve been dealing with it the only way I know how.

Doing nothing. Just letting my thoughts and my feelings get the best of me. I think I’m slowly getting a grip, though, and tomorrow should help a lot. I’m going to stay at the beach for a couple of days, right on the ocean in a little cottage that my family rents out every year.

I’m just going to take some time to relax, have some fun, drink lots of alcohol, and hopefully when I come back I can figure everything out with my personal life.

Somehow I let the fear get inside. It slips in and takes me unawares, forcing a sharp intake of breath which allows nervousness and anxiety to find their way. They take hold, staking claim from my head to my stomach, bringing dizziness and queasiness. They surround my lungs so that I can’t breathe, and infiltrate all limbs so I can’t walk or hold myself up. The last to surrender, my heart alone fights them off as if to shout “you have no business here,” but it fatigues and weakens. The turmoil forms tears which well up inside my whole body and yet don’t come, for it is instead your gaze which meets my eyes, and your hand which encompasses mine. With one touch you end my struggle, and exile the fear which consumes me when you are not near. With you my heart will always be the victor.

I don’t know why I am so dependent on other people.

In one sense, I’m quite independent. I like spending time with other people, but I thrive on having enough alone time, too. There’s definitely a balance that I try to maintain, when I can control it.

But in another sense, I’m massively codependent. All I really care about is finding someone else who I can share my life with. And it’s not because of society telling us we need to grow up and start a family as soon as possible. It’s because it’s the one thing I genuinely want more than anything else.

But why? I’m the one who takes care of my basic needs. I feed myself, clean myself, and I never leave my own side. I’m the only person who has always been and always will be a part of my life. I should be able to make myself happy.

But the simple truth of the matter is that I can’t. There are many things I am capable of, and making myself happy is not one of those things. I mean on a permanent basis. I can be happy for a few hours or for a day when I’m with friends, but it ends soon enough. It generally ends as soon as I am by myself. As soon as I have nothing to do but contemplate being alone.

So why, then, do I crave alone time as much as I long for someone else’s company? The one person who always has been and always will be, is the same person who makes me the most miserable.

I ache for the simplest of feelings. A hand in mine, little smiles for no reason at all, being able to share stupid moments without being thought of as stupid.

But mostly I ache to know, even when I am by myself, that I am not alone.

You’re three sides of my eight-sided circle, two lovers juxtaposed with doorways

Tomorrow I leave Australia, and I’m just not ready. It doesn’t feel real, like it’s not actually happening, just like how I felt before I came. I can’t believe it’s over.

This experience flew by disgustingly fast.

I had such an amazing time, and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. There are some things I am excited to go back to (or some things I am excited to be leaving *cough roommates cough*) but I really do love it here. I learned how to be independent, because this was a big change in many ways for me.

I’ve never been on my own in a big city for more than a couple of days, and I’ve never had to cook for myself consistently before. I’ve always had mom or dad or a meal plan. And of course there’s the whole going-outside-of-the-United-States-for-the-first-time-ever-and-staying-there-for-months thing.

My time here was spent quite differently than how I imagined, and there are a lot of things I wish I could have done that I wasn’t able to, but that’s ok. I think for my first trip, that I did alright.

I’ll just have to do them when I come back :)