Another Story

Once upon a time (because that's how the best stories start), there was a girl who just couldn't get it right.  Despite her best efforts, nothing ever went the way she planned or the way she hoped.  She wasn't the worst person in the world, but she was pretty close.  She was a mess most days... actually, she was a mess everyday.  When she drank she was an asshole, when she was sober she was severely introverted to the point of being painstakingly shy, and when she was on drugs, she was a party monster, albeit being everyone's favorite person to be around. She lived in a world of "what if"s, "someday"s, and "tomorrow will be better"s.  You could say she was a dreamer, but baby, she wasn't the only one.

She was smart, but mostly just book smart; she could remember everything and had a photographic memory.  She was well-read, well-written, and could pass tests without studying and still score higher than every other person in the class.  However, she lacked common sense.  She also lacked social smarts, and street smarts.  One might ascertain she had Aspergers.. but that's debatable since she was never properly diagnosed by a licensed physician.  If she had the gumption or type of personality conducive to climbing the social ladder and kissing ass, she probably wouldn't be the type of girl who has stories written about her, because she would be of little to no substance at all, like the majority of people inhabiting this world.

She was rather tall and had a pretty decent body without much effort.  That is to say, she was slim and muscular without working out, however, she also had a slight layer of fat obscuring the real muscle definition that otherwise would have been much more visible. She could have been beautiful if she actually cared about her appearance of if she had the necessary funding to maintain herself.  However, she wore a pair of Juicy Couture, rectangular, tortoise-shell glasses from 2007, had a serious fro of mouse-y, brown hair on her head, bad skin because she didn't eat healthy, nor could she afford a dermatologist to help her combat her adult, cystic acne, and her teeth were never very white from drinking too much wine and smoking too many cigarettes.

She did have remarkable bone structure, but you couldn't really tell this unless you were to observe her for several minutes, and by imagining what she might look like if you removed the glasses, which were otherwise obstructing a clean view of her cheekbones and straight, pointed nose. She probably could have been a model if she knew how to present herself and didn't live on a diet of Cheetos, Frito Lay chips, processed meats, and white bread.

Alas, she was who she was.  And who she was was herself.  And herself was called "Reyna."  Reyna was a lost soul.  She seldom had her life in order with all facets in balance.  On the rare occasion that things were going smoothly ('things' referring to work, her love life, her social life, family life, and finances), it never lasted more than a couple of months before one area of life nose-dived again.  She never really thought her life was any different from the lives of others; she just assumed that bad things happened to everyone and no one was ever really content with their respective state of being.  She didn't realize that living one's life in a constant state of struggle, discontent, and stress wasn't the way which life was meant to be lived.

She didn't know what it felt like to be loved for who you really are, unconditionally.  Sure, she knew the love of her parents, her siblings, maybe a couple close friends.  But the love of a partner?  No.  She knew what it was like to give love unconditionally to a significant other, but she had never really been on the receiving end, or fully received back the love she put out.

At the time of this story, Reyna was in a four-year relationship with a man whom she loved, but in her heart, the deepest part of her heart, she knew that feeling wasn't mutual.  Sure he said that he loved her, and they had certainly been together long enough to know each other inside and out, however, it never felt quite right when they were on a romantic date, hanging out with nothing to do in his apartment, or even when they were having sex.  She cared for him with her heart and soul; she wanted to marry him someday, and she knew that she would be broken if they were to go their separate ways.  However, she also undoubtedly knew that they weren't meant to last forever, and that eventually he would hurt her. But, instead of trusting and following her gut, she simply kept going onward, waiting for that day to come.

She could always sense these things about people.  The subtleties and realities of another human's life that most people overlooked, but that she immediately picked up on, and always seemed to know where such anomalous traits would lead.  It might have been this very trait of her own which caused her to be socially inept.  She had a constant guard up, and only relaxed enough to be friendly or bond with someone once they proved them self to be trusting and loyal.  This point usually came when she went out a friend and got black out drunk or took enough drugs to come close to an OD and said individual would end up having to care for her and subsequently counsel her in the days to come regarding her reckless behavior and emotional upheaval.

I digress.  Reyna had reached yet another low point in her life, where everything that could possibly go wrong, started going wrong.  She was laid off from the medical office where she had been working as a temp for the past two months, because the woman she took over for actually decided to return after her maternity leave.

Not only was she out of a job, but she also got evicted from her apartment, because they raised the rent to double the price she had been paying for the past four years that she lived there.  She was forced to move in with her boyfriend, which would have been awesome under any other circumstances, however, she was more stressed by the fact she didn't have an income and there was already a strain on the relationship as a result of her stressful circumstances.

She had very few coping mechanisms in such times, and thus, turned to drugs, which wasn't the best solution, since she was flat-broke, and every penny should have been put toward rent and bills.  She had a long-standing love/hate relationship with cocaine, but suddenly she found herself dreaming about doing lines.  She would wake up craving it, although she knew that doing coke at a time like this would be absolutely detrimental to her mental and financial well-being.  She found herself with more free time than she had had in a long time, more alone time than she had had in a long time as well, since her boyfriend often traveled out of town for a week at a time for work, and also because she wasn't going out with her friends.  She was avoiding social engagements because she was embarrassed to tell her friends that she was unemployed, and she also couldn't afford to spend money on cab fare, food, or alcohol (which was the devil). Yes, I know what your'e thinking: she didn't have money to go out with friends, yet she had enough money to buy coke? Damn straight; she had her priorities worked out, and fake pleasure was priority number one.

One night, when her boyfriend was out of town, and she was home along for the third night in a row that week, she gave into her gnawing craving and dialed up her coke dealer.  She told herself she would just do a couple of bumps to boost her morale and then hide the rest for a special occasion or night out. She ended up doing half a gram by herself over the course of one night.  Her anxiety was then so out of control, that she couldn't sleep, even after lying in bed for 2 hours trying to relax her mind. Immediately, she regretted her foolish decisions.

The next day, was much worse.  Reyna had remorse for spending money on blow, guilt for doing it alone in an empty apartment, lasting anxiety that life was in a terrible state of affairs, and of course, the urge to remedy the situation by doing a couple more bumps to start the day off a little more positively.

And so started a vicious, secret addiction.  It was kind of like "My Secret Addiction" (the TV show..) but worse because no one at all knew, and no one at all could help.  There was no intervention or free rehab about to happen here.

It spiraled out of control pretty fast. Unable to find steady employment, and needing to pay for her newfound addiction, Reyna was forced to take up stripping.  Luckily, because her boyfriend was out of town so much, and thanks to her newly found ab muscles and tight gluts as a result of her addiction (hello weightloss!), she could both keep her profession a secret and was now looking hotter than ever.

If she wasn't a mess before, she sure was now.  She was the poster-child for the term "little girl lost." She actually had conversations with her coke dealers when they delivered the goods, since she saw them twice a week now.  Reyna knew she had a problem, she knew that coke was bad for her body and mind, and she knew this was something she didn't want anyone to find out about (which is always the biggest indication that a person shouldn't be doing what they're doing and that they have a legitimate problem).  She knew she had the power to stop immediately and never start again.  The thing is, she didn't want to stop.

Cocaine had become her best friend in the midst of the maelstrom that was her life. The storm that spun wildly out of control around her, while she stood powerless in the screaming winds and reached desperately outward for a hand to hold, was relentless and violent.  She gave up trying to take regain control, and sought solace in what she now looked to as a permanent fixture in the heart of the chaos.

She found confidence, if only temporarily while the high peaked. She found something to look forward to.  In fact, she looked forward to her next line 24/7. She found something that cured her boredom.  Coke made what would have otherwise been the prospect of another dismal night home alone something to embrace.  Being alone was OK when she had coke. It slowly consumed her day to day operations and she began to base her existence off of securing more blow, and rationing it out, three lines at a clip.

It came to a point where she knew she had a problem.  She knew she reached a point in her addiction that people were going to find out, given that her behavior was noticeably different these days as she went from coke high to coke low and repeated the cycle.  When she ran out of coke, or if she was in public when she came down off of it, every single person in her path was annoying.  She couldn't stand the voices of other people, the noises of everyday life happening around her.  She could only focus on getting safely back home where she could do more coke.

Her nose was always stuffed or running, and after a heavy binge she sometimes had blood in her snot.  She already hated her nose, and was terrified of getting a hole in her septum or some other deformity.  Despite her fear, it never prevented her from blowing more coke.  Sometimes when she was high, she had this weird desire to pee on her floor.  She just wanted to not move from where she was, and piss her pants.  She always refrained from doing so, because she knew clean up would be a real bitch and that it was a nasty notion in the first place.  It's just because, when she was high, she was so relaxed and cozy and content in both her body and her mind that she never wanted to move.

She started to get scared when her heart would be fast and her palms would sweat when she was doing lines alone.  She knew that it wasn't a good sign when her sternum plate felt a heavy pressure, or when she felt like she had to meditate and breathe deeply in order to get her racing heart to slow to a somewhat normal beat.  She wondered why she did coke at all.  She sometimes wondered what would happen if she were to accidentally OD alone.  Would she know she had ODed in time to call 911?  Would she be able to call her boyfriend for help if she felt like she went to far?  Or, would she stop breathing and pass out?  It was a dangerous game.  She knew she was a fool, but the high she chased was demanding and the craving was unrelenting.

She thought of the heartache she would cause her family, friends, and boyfriend if she were to accidentally OD and die from an addiction that no one even knew she was struggling with.  Though she considered the possibility of death every time she sat down to do coke, a deep-rooted self-loathing and naivety kept her from stopping. The saddest part of doing this drug, was the immense emptiness she felt when she came close to finishing the vile.  She was almost relieved when she finished it, because it meant it was gone: done, taken care of, no more.  On the other hand of course, as any coke head will tell you, the problem with coke is that you constantly want more.

She would promise herself that this was it.  She was done.  But, the cycle would repeat. When she neared the last couple of lines or bumps at the bottom of the vile, she never knew if she should just finish that shit off altogether, or save the last of it for the morning.  What option would be the most devastating on her psyche?  Probably leaving some for morning, because then surely, the high would wear off in 20 minutes and she would be shit out of luck and craving more for the rest of the day. And so, she would finish it off the same night, and hate herself and her life as soon as the last of it was gone.  She always knew waking up the next morning was going to be brutal.

She hated her world. But it was the world she created.  Reyna kept starving herself, and buying blow.  She died of a heart attack home alone one Saturday night while her boyfriend was on business.

The End.

Random Sunday Night Thoughts

1.  I miss having abnormal working hours so I could party on Sunday nights like the cool kids.  I miss doing drugs on a random Sunday night at panther room, staying up until 7am, and then recovering Monday. I feel like such a boring loser now that I know if I am not sober and in bed by midnight on Sunday, my entire work week will be hungover hell.

2.  I love when Lady Gaga starves herself back down to skinny status and walks around in micro shorts and navel grazing bodysuits.  She should starve herself all the time.

3.  I hate when people nap in my presence.  If I wanted to be alone, I would be alone.  Don't be in my apartment if you're planning on napping or sleeping while I am awake.  I can't stand to be bored like this.  Did I mention that I miss partying on Sunday nights?  This is fucking torture sitting here remembering how I used to go out at like 11pm on Sundays dancing....

4. I am currently wearing 6 inch platform boots because I've been on a Halloween diet for the past two weeks and in order to motivate myself from eating more tonight, I have to have my stomach out and tall shoes on so I feel too sexy to eat.  It works.

5.  I hate when people look older than they actually are.  It's so unfortunate and makes me wonder why they don't take a more proactive approach to taking care of their bodies etc. I also pray that I never look older than I actually am.

6.  I hate Donkey.

7.  I am clearly in a sour mood.

8.  I need a vacation.

9.  I am so bored.

10.  I am evil.

Still a Mess

I have given up on the idea of normalcy in my life.  I am a fucking mess.   I always have been, and I always will be.