Another Night

Another night crying myself to sleep. I am such a damn whiny, useless, fragile little girl. I am 30-freaking-years-old. I should have my life together. I should own all this crap. And here I am, going on two weeks, shuttering myself up in my apartment and drifting off with more tears on my pillow.

How the hell did I get here? Everyone said I was the best, the brightest. That my whole life would be a great, shining show of specialness. Yeah, look how that turned out. In a dead-end job, barely making rent, have lost two boyfriends and a girlfriend in as many months. Nobody wants anything to do with me. Why the hell do I even keep trying?

My family might miss me, in some abstract sense. And then there’s the fear. The fear that if I give up, there really is something waiting to condemn me for it. The fear that maybe this is just the bottom, that tomorrow will be better, so maybe I should just wait one more day.

Some people might call that ‘hope’. Shows you how far down the well I’ve gone, I guess.

Every night I come home, nuke some dinner, binge watch until I can’t keep my eyes open, then fall asleep with red eyes and desperate thoughts. I don’t know how to turn this around. I guess I’m just waiting for a miracle. Those can happen, right? Oh, right, you’re supposed to have faith for those. I lost mine decades ago.

So there it is. Curled up in old, comfy pajamas on an ancient mattress. Leaving tear-stains on beautiful, violet cushions that were a present from my mom when I graduated college. Probably the only nice thing left in this place.

On the plus side, I can’t afford enough wine to get myself drunk on. That makes it way less likely I’ll go the way my uncle did. I guess that’s a plus anyway. They all say it is. I wonder how much it would take, really? It’s not like I’d have to pay off my credit card, after all…

Knock knock knock.

What the hell? It’s after 10. Probably some drunk or druggie has the wrong apartment. Again.

I throw myself out of bed, yank back the chain, and pull the door open, prepared to berate one of my many loser neighbors for being just as much a loser as I am.

It’s Cathy. She’s holding a bottle of wine. Her eyes are red. But she’s smiling.

“I hoped you’d be up,” she says. “Can we please talk?”

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