Tell Me in the Morning

   The Weekend That Shall Forever After Be (Kind of) Remembered as The Birthday Bender


   I got drunk Friday at noon, and basically stayed that way until Sunday morning. It was the most exhausting weekend of my life.
     We spent Friday afternoon talking to the most country bartender ever, who told me about "an article" he read that was talking about sexting, explaining that there are vibrating devices your phone hooks up to that you put between your legs that are signaled every time you receive a text. The ride home was spent laughing with Sister #3, who turned 31 Friday, about how how grossly misinformed he was.
     "I wanted to be like- you have OBVIOUSLY never sexted" I gasped.
     "I know, seriously! Because THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS!" she added, equally hysterical.

   Saturday we went on a Pub crawl. Bobby came along and I got so wasted that at one point I actually pointed to him and yelled to my cousin, who has read my blog via my Twitter account, "THIS IS BOBBY MCGEE! THAT'S HIM!" (Note: When you are drunk enough that you TALK ABOUT YOUR OWN BLOG, you should have stopped drinking at least an hour ago. And that wasn't even where it ended.) There was also a sing-along, which was super awesome, and at one point we talked about Pink Floyd and I insisted repeatedly that The Wall album "gets me on a level that no person EVER will. EVER. EVER." Which was true when I was fifteen. Not as much anymore.

   Then I went to Girls Night with several of my friends where I rambled nonsense and told them over and over "I broke my phone and I DON'T EVEN CARE!" 

   I dropped my phone hard enough to destroy the screen, and now I kind of do care about that. I also spilled an entire drink in my lap. I hold my liquor really, really well. Anyone want to party?

On the Night my Love Broke Through

 The anxiety starts early in the evening and I attribute it to my typical disillusionment with the conundrum I find myself in; I am close to constantly uncomfortable with how much or little I am being noticed at any given time, alternating between feeling oppressed and neglected by the microscope I struggle to keep myself under. I stumble so haphazardly the line between overexposed and attention-starved, often feeling I coexist in these extremes, never knowing which I feel more alienated by. Overexposure has the appeal of insincere company; being routinely assaulted by recognition, be it over-indulgently affectionate or bitterly distasteful, while neglect has the sincerest of companies; a kindred loneliness, a silent camaraderie, solidarity in commonness, anonymity, mediocrity. They're both such a relief and such a burden at the same time. I can't find a balance. I drown myself in hyperbole.

   Anxiousness manifests itself firstly as a thin line from the top of my pelvis to the back of my throat, darkly pressing itself against the inside of my neck, making it an effort to swallow. As it thickens, I pull myself in, limb by limb, employing my typical defense, contracting, withdrawing. I compose myself carefully, pulling my shoulders up and backwards, raising my head, centering and tightening my posture, trying to silently soothe my shaky breaths with syllables I always find reassuring; grace. composure. femininity. power. delicateness. tastefulness. I try to exhale the negativity, but I can't seem to expel it. I can't find its source, and that gives it a strength I'm not prepared to battle with.

   As the night continues, so does it, in varying degrees, intensifying in the moments when I find myself away from him, which is so puzzling. I've never been so unsettled by his absences, particularly not when they're this brief and harmless. 

   It starts gnawing away at me, and I'm suddenly confronted by something I've been shoving into the distant future for years. It's like I've discovered a gap in my armor- a vulnerability- and the honest mistakes of a couple of strangers have stabbed it directly. 

   Lying awake, alone, I'm paralyzed. Anxiety becomes terror, infiltrating my body from the chest outward. I am unexpectedly aware of feelings that threaten to inundate me like a tidal wave, from the inside out. "I haven't felt anything like this since I was fifteen," I find myself thinking, nervous, scared, frantic. 

   When I wake up in the morning, it's still there, and throughout the day it thoroughly permeates my mind, dragging me to the keyboard and drafting confessions I remain deeply afraid of.

   I'm sorry, I know this is cryptic, but I don't know if I'm ready to admit any of it to myself yet. If this turns out to be real, I'll quickly find myself unable to suppress it and honestly, I think we'll be the only two surprised.