I found out at 9:30 this morning that I’d been freaking myself out all weekend for nothing. There was no job offer; I misunderstood. They are still conducting interviews and will contact me by the end of the week. My immediate response (aside from feeling like a complete dumbass) was to decide that I don’t want the job anymore (because I felt like a complete dumbass). Several hours later I broke down sobbing at a gas station outside of town on my way back home. Later, I decided that I was going to turn off my phone in the morning, cut myself off from any and all outside contact, and wallow in self-pity and misery for a full 24 hours. This seemed like a good plan.
I am often my own worst enemy, and I hate it. I hate myself for it. I wish that I could be someone who lived differently. Who lived without making such a big fucking deal of things. Who lived without overwhelming fear, anxiety and self-loathing. Who wasn’t so self-destructive. Who didn’t do stupid shit like spend $80 on slot machines and then take out an additional $40 at one of the casino ATMs. Who didn’t make it over two months without smoking to swallow two packs in four days. Who didn’t spend so much time and exert so much energy making life harder than it has to be. Who could maybe, just maybe, enjoy it a little. Who didn’t think, however briefly, about flipping my car on the highway or driving off the side of the mountain.
I keep wondering what it means to be human. What it means to accept myself as human. How much leeway does that allow me? How many mistakes or how big of a mistake am I allowed to make? How often am I allowed to make the same mistakes? At what point can someone else look at me and justifiably say, “You should hate yourself”?
I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to any of it tonight. I’m home. I’m in my bed. I didn’t flip my car. I’m out of cigarettes and have no intention of buying more. I have no idea what will happen to my day tomorrow when I wake up and eventually get out of bed.
Right now, I’m just going to sleep.