Mothership

I’m abnormally close to my mother. Not in a gross way, just in an uncommon way.

After my dad left, things were bad. We were broke. People kept breaking into our house. She lost her job. All kinds of shit just rained down on us from the sky like some cataclysmic plague sent by god. Things got worse and worse, to the point that my mother was selling off our possessions on the side of the road to make ends meet. I even setup my own little stand, at 2 years old, and sold my toys, but I remember it feeling like some kind of game than something dire. Things were bad, really bad, but my mother is the kind of person that made shit work. I never knew things were so bad until I got older.

Things got a little better later. Mom somehow managed to afford my tuition for private school, and a little duplex home. I had a happy childhood, really, but eventually things were bad again. We were strapped.

We moved to another state so that she could get a job and we could have a better life where we didn’t sell all our things to strangers or cut corners on anything and everything. It was a rough start. I remember that we lived in a motel room for a while. That didn’t bother me so much, because after my dad left I started sleeping with her anyways. We eventually found an apartment, but it wasn’t in a good part of town, so I wasn’t allowed to play outside. Instead, I got the master bedroom so I had room to play inside.

Things got better, but not without consequence. Mom finally made enough money to buy a really real house, but landing the sale nearly killed her. Then the overtime she had to work to pay for the house nearly killed her. Also, taking me out of private school nearly killed her. She felt incredibly guilty about the fact that I became a latch-key kid and spent tons of time alone. She’s spent most of my life feeling guilty. Guilty for picking the wrong dad, for not being able to make time, for working too much, for not providing enough, for this, and that, this thing over here…

When I turned seventeen and graduated from high school, she helped me buy the house next door to her, as it was a foreclosure and I kept threatening to move up where the druggies lived: it was all I could afford. The house she’d bought was far too small for me and her to co-habitate (not a word, btw)… At a puny 750 sq ft, we just tripped over each other and got under each other’s skin. We tried to make the house nice, but it never really got there. While it was the most economic thing she ever did for me, I’m not always sure it was our best choice.

I had a house, so I filled it. I filled it with things and pets, and at one point people. In recent years, what was a thing to fill was just became something to hold me back from doing anything. I have too many things. I have too many pets. Somehow I ended up with no people, though. No room for them with all those things and pets.

I never felt like I could move. Moving four dogs and a cat is daunting. Going through all my shit and getting rid of a bunch of it is daunting. More than anything, if I left, I’d leave my mother alone. Most people don’t think twice about that kind of thing, but my mother is single with no family in the state. Really, no family in the world, as the family doesn’t really stay in touch. Her sister is worthless and doesn’t even call to check on her. Mom does have an uncle around her age that checks in on her, but I don’t think she’d like to hang out with him ALL the time.

So leaving would literally leave her here alone. What if something were to happen? It would be my fault. I wouldn’t be here to do anything for her.

But what do you do when you’re not happy?

It’s not a recent thing, but I feel like whenever I talk, my mother gets mad at me. She doesn’t like when I explain thing. She doesn’t like when I tell her fun facts. She seems happier when I don’t know, like she just wants to say something without having things explained to her. It makes me feel like shit, to be honest. I don’t know how to be another way, but my nature seems to irritate her. She’s always accusing me of being agitated just because I’m explanatory and saying I’m getting upset, but I only get upset when I try to tell her something and she just goes, “I dunno.” I AM TELLING YOU. NOW YOU KNOW. WHY DO YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME?!

I’m not sure what to do when I think I’d be better mentally if I were away from her, but can’t bring myself to leave her here alone…

Palm Sunday Miracle

Okay, it’s not a miracle, but I’m super excited about my mother buying me a new computer. She got me an Acer All-In-One… just like… cuz I’ve been looking at computers for months… It’s so nice… I’m in love with it.

My mom is the best.

Today is a much better day than yesterday.
Yesterday morning at 730 my mom called me and I thought she was dying. She wasn’t, but we HAD to get her to a doctor. She’s had a respiratory infection for like a month. Since we’re on Kaiser, though, we couldn’t go to the doctor… I ended up running her to an Urgent Care center… about 20 minutes away. Not really convenient, but we got in pretty quick.

The doctor, a gentleman that I think came from Africa (he had non-specific accent and was very dark), had a fantastic bedside manner, and was very concerned this had been going on so long. So, he gave her a Z pack and prednisone. She was so much better this morning.

After we left the doctor we got breakfast and then saw Power Rangers! I still want to be the yellow ranger. Then we went to Gordman’s because she wanted to walk around… and I had spent the morning thinking she was dying, so I was down for whatever. She bought me a blanket pal, and a weird egg with feet, and some socks. It was a good time.

Today she called to ask me if I wanted Joe’s Crab Shack for lunch. So, we went to Joe’s Crab Shack for lunch. I’d mentioned I’d like her to come look at All-In-Ones with me today, because I was once again looking at what was on the market, but I found one I like and she got it for me. I dunno why, but I love it. Now, I just gotta get the Creative Cloud and get to work. I really hope I can get back in the groove of graphic design, now.

I see my doctor for my depression tomorrow. It’s been an ordeal to reach this point. On Friday, they called me and wanted to say that I couldn’t see her because I have Kaiser. I was like, no… cuz I’m just going to give you money. Money for services. That’s all we’re doing. And like, ugh. It was a whole ordeal and I had to argue with like 7 people. I just hope she can help me… I’m so tired of being tired and sad.

Also, Friday David 2 and I went to the Car Show. It was actually a lot of fun.
We’ve been watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, so we just went back to his place afterward and watched that… drank some wine. It was a good night out!

It was nice to have a pretty good weekend. I hope the week is also this good.

Best to bed.

TTYL.

Dan & Phil Tour!

So I took my mom with me to see Dan & Phil in Denver, because I have no friends and didn’t wanna go alone…. And like… I love DanIsNotOnFire and AmazingPhil…
She didn’t get it… But like…

A, I’m 27… so she laughed at me for being at a thing that was mostly filled with teen girls…. fair. Totes fair.
2, She laughed at me for being so excited about something that was mostly filled with teen girls… also pretty fair. (I do not usually relate on anything with teenage girls… even when I was one…)
D, After the show she was like, “You are an ex-goth that listens to that heavy metal crap, watches gory ass horror movies, and curses like every sentence… isn’t this a little TAME for you? Why are we here?”

Yes, mom. Dan and Phil are very clean-cut, tame, and generally adorable… I have varied interests, just like you taught me to.

What did you think I was taking you to?
A Gwar concert?
You wanna go to a Gwar concert with me, Mom?
We can come home covered in fake blood (maybe real blood), fake piss (maybe real piss), and really real bruises.
Wouldn’t that be fun to take my 61 year old folk-music loving mother to?
I bet she’d enjoy that.

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The show was totally G-Rated… and totally cute. I definitely didn’t understand all the teen girls screaming like they were being murdered, though. Like… teen girls have a lot of emotions… and I understand none of them. It reminded Mothership of the time she took me to an NSYNC concert, and everyone, including the grown women, just SCREAMED LIKE THEY WERE BEING MURDERED the entire time. I dunno why it happens… I don’t do that…

My mom is so weird, though… cuz she already knows I have a broad taste in stuff. In all stuff. I’m an art geek. I listen to ALL KINDS of music. I read. I love movies. I play video games. I like going out. I like staying in. I like black, but sometimes I can be interested in something pink… Like… she knows.

She also knows that if I were gonna take her to something, I’d warn her first. Like, I’d love to take her to a Marilyn Manson or Rob Zombie concert… Slipknot is coming with Manson to the Pepsi Center… and I totes wish I had funds to get tickets… cuz that shit would be hilarious and awesome. Back in the day, Mom was always like, “I bet under those masks Slipknot is just a bunch of pizza faced nerdy kids… you’re worshipping nerd kids…” So… taking her to a Slipknot concert would be HILARIOUS.

Anyways… NOT A DEPRESSING ENTRY TODAY! WOO!

I Finally Did Something REALLY Stupid

When other people talk about high school or college, there are typical stories. There’s the time Bobby drank so much he blacked out and disappeared and wandered back into town the next morning after waking up in the woods. There’s the time Murphy did a little too much coke and ended up in the ER. There’s the time Miranda drank so much she jumped off the roof into the pool and everyone thought she was gonna drown. There’s the time Stephanie drank so much that her friends took her to the ER, but they were all wasted so instead of doing the RIGHT thing, they pulled up to the ER, threw her out of the car, honked the horn, sped off, and hoped for the best.

I don’t have these stories. Historically I’m just not that person. I can drink a lot, but at worst I tend to go home. I don’t do any drugs. I’ve never almost died from alcohol intake. I’m boring.

Saturday was a good day. I got up to take Bdo to the vet for a pre-dental exam, and Kyrie tagged along so they cold recheck her eye. Friday morning, you see, she couldn’t open it. I took the day off work and took her to the vet. They couldn’t tell what was wrong so they gave me an antibiotic, pain killers, and steroid eye drops to reduce swelling. Saturday they rechecked it and there’s no object in it, or any scratches. Somehow, even with her deep-set chow chow eyes, she managed to hit it so hard on something it bruised the eye and made her 3rd eyelid (did you know dogs have 3 eyelids?! fascinating.) swell up. She’s doing fine now, though.

Also that morning, I had received texts from D2. He wanted to know if I was going to the show tonight. It would be the first time he’d see his old band play without him. They got a new keyboardist and he wanted to show support… but not alone, because it’s still kinda shit he had to leave the band, ya know? So I agreed to go and planned on being there early to grab a ticket.

In the meantime, Mom and I went to see Krampus. It was gold. It’s not scary, but it’s funny, fast-paced, and has a good story. I’m really hoping that they capitalize on the merchandising for it. I want a Krampus bell… and potentially a small collection of his evil toy minions. I really enjoyed it.

When we got home I cleaned the garage. It was already pretty clean, but I rearranged stuff so that I could fit my car in it. It’s been years since the Jeep fit in the garage. So I was super stoked.

I got ready to go out. It was a steam punk band headlining, so I threw on my favorite outfit, which is a LOT of black and white stripes, with some boots, and headed out. Parking was a nightmare. I got there early and I still couldn’t find anywhere to park. Damn the Bluebird district. It’s wretched. Everything is marked residential parking only. Still, I finally found a place pretty far from the venue, and ended up walking with some other random concert-goers. I would figure out walking back alone later.

Got a ticket, said hello to the bands, had a drink (1). Talked to some people, D2 showed up with his boyfriend we all did a shot (2). Saw the first two bands play. Guy I gave a cigarette to outside bought me a drink (3). Went outside with D2 and Co to smoke. BLACKOUT.

I vaguely remember sitting in an ambulance. I kept apologizing to the EMTs and telling them how stupid this was, because this isn’t how they should be spending their valuable time.

I vaguely remember talking to the officer at the ER a few times. I can’t tell you what was said, but a lot of it is me saying something and him ignoring me. Which is fair.

Then I woke up and my mom was holding my hand. She looked really concerned. I didn’t know what was going on. I babbled. And when I was acting more coherent she was allowed to take me home.

I’d thrown up on myself at some point in the night. I didn’t remember doing that, or anything other than going outside with D2 & Co. One of the people I was with said that I’d seemed a little tipsy, and then got very drunk in like a minute in a half and hit the ground. She and her son were concerned about me, but all she could do was panic…

A fireman showed up from somewhere, and called my mom on my cell, but she was too far out for them to wait for her to get there, so they called an ambulance. Then wherever they put my phone called her again and all she could hear was me screaming and losing my mind. She was, of course, worried beyond all belief. Then the line went dead and no one called her for a while.

I guess I kept trying to call her from the hospital, and failed. She called me back, though, and the nurse on call answered to tell her where I was.

I don’t remember her getting there. I just remember the look of worry. I remember I told her a few times that this wasn’t me, and I cried a lot. Then she took me home.

I’m wracked with guilt. My mom wasn’t mad. She just took me home, let me in my house and said she’d take me back to my car in the morning. She’s just glad I’m okay, and on the way home I kept trying to apologize and she said, “You don’t even know the stupid crap I did when I was your age. I’m just glad you’re okay and no one got hurt.” Literally, in that moment she essentially said she’d done worse and that it was fine. That’s killing me.

I feel like she should be mad. Yeah, I’m 27 years old and I totally an adult, but because of me she had to get up in the dead of night, worry the whole way to a hospital she’s never been to before, and get me. While those who were with me maintain that I didn’t do anything reckless or wrong, and that I was probably drugged somehow, even though I watched the bartender make the drink that guy bought me, I FEEL TERRIBLE. I feel like I should be punished somehow or something… It’s just… whack.

Sunday I woke up, took a shower, and mom took me to my car after she drank her coffee. She still wasn’t mad. I went to work, but couldn’t get a whole lot done because I couldn’t write anything. My whole being was weird and shaky and every so often I would move my head and get dizzy… so I went home. I brought mom Chipotle, and then told her I was going home to sleep, because I still felt wrong. I called her, even though she lives next door to me, like 5 times that afternoon. She still wasn’t mad. Everything was still okay. Tomorrow would be better.

So this morning I got up, took Bdo in for his dental, and drove to work.

I’m better, I guess. I’m still feeling like I did something wrong, even though I prolly didn’t. Won’t be drinking when I go out for a while, though… maybe one beer if it comes in a bottle and I can watch them open it.

Mean Kids

I don’t want kids.
If anyone comments that I’ll feel different when I meet the right man and settle down, A, I’d like to remind you that I’m an aromantic asexual, 2, no one asked for your comments, and D, shut up, because saying shit like that to impressionable minds ruins generations of kids that think they’re fucked up for not feeling what people told them they would be feeling. JUST LET ME FEEL WHAT I FEEL.

Anyways, I read an article on some website about reasons Millennials aren’t having kids.
Apparently, I’m not the only one… Reasons for this include:

  • Student loans making financial stability impossible
  • Passing along crazy
  • World already feeling overpopulated
  • Fertility issues
  • Pregnancy being shitty, in general (if not potentially dangerous)
  • Fear of not parenting correctly
  • Lack of maternal instinct
  • The world being seriously fucked up
  • Careers being more important than starting a family
  • Wanting to have a lifestyle that a kid doesn’t fit into, like being a nomad
  • Just not wanting them

I fall into the “mental illness” camp, amongst others.

At this point, whatever is wrong with me, I sure don’t want to pass on to kids. Being a kid was shitty, and being a fucked up kid was hard. More importantly, though, I don’t want to be a mentally ill person raising a kid. I don’t think we mentally ill people really do kids justice when it comes to parenting. People are already just doing the best they can on that front, as it is. When you throw mental illness in there… Things get tricky, and very quickly it can get very unhealthy.

My dad is bipolar. I didn’t grow up with him, but all my shrinks have agreed that I prolly get most of my mental illness from him. My mom has clinical depression. I didn’t used think that her depression effected me much, but I’m beginning to think otherwise.

When I was in high school, I went through puberty, as ya do, but I also started being volatile, self destructive, having mood swings outside the scope of PMS and normal teen girl feelings, and it was the start of my love story with suicide. It was terrible. Long before that, though, I can remember things being wrong.

Growing up, I was adorable. We were broke, but my mom found the best dresses and shit, and made sure I looked great, and that I was happy. I never knew we were poor till way later… like maybe late middle school, early high school. I would say that means she did quite well with me. I was a well-balanced little nerd child with high grades and not a foul thought floating around in my head.

Middle school was hard on me. I’d swapped out of private school to public school when we moved the previous year, so I’d lost all my friends, the curriculum was literally so easy that I didn’t understand it for like a month, and I just wasn’t really fitting in that well. I liked my after-school care, because the adults were cool (the kids weren’t terribly fond of me), but middle school is the end of when you can put kids in after-school care… So, I felt quite alone.

I learned to be a latch-key kid, take the bus home to an empty house and lock all the doors… never answer the phone till it goes through to voicemail and mom says it’s her… But I still had problems. The overwhelming problem was that a lot of people wanted to pick on me. I WAS a little fat girl with no fashion sense and overdeveloped social skills that kids didn’t get…. so… I guess I was asking for it. It got really bad, though. I’d come home and cry a lot. One day a kid hurled a rock bigger than my fist at my head. It hit me on the back of the skull, knocked me down… there was blood. I went home and cried. I did not go home and tell my mother anything about it.

Here’s the thing. My mom was a great mom. She still is. The thing about my mother, though, is that she’s great at making me feel like my own problems don’t matter. When I was a kid I was hyper-aware that my mom was very busy and very depressed. She went back to work two weeks after I was born, and even when she ended up unemployed she found work to go out and do (selling our stuff on the side of the road in a shit town in Florida). She’s worked everyday of her life to try and give me a great life. Not once have I ever intentionally taken that for granted.

So when I had problems in middle school with shitty boys trying to break my skull open, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I entered high school started thinking about how much I hate myself, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I made bad choices and wanted to tell someone about it, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I felt like I was going crazy and couldn’t control what I was thinking or feeling, I went home and cried it out before she got home. When I thought about killing myself, I went home and stared at my method of choice for hours, and then put it away before she got home.

I didn’t manage to hide everything. She was aware of my failing grades from not going to class. She was aware that I would binge eat. She was aware that I didn’t ask to go hang out with my friends much, which is apparently abnormal. She watched as I spend more and more time plugged into the computer. She was the one that bought me all my goth wear. She was often who took the brunt of my anger when I flew into a rage that I couldn’t explain.

I guess she was just too busy to put all those pieces together.

I told her about the rock incident recently, in passing, and she asked why I didn’t tell her, then. I couldn’t tell her that it was because I didn’t feel like I could tell her most things. My problems haven’t been something I wanted to bother her with for a long time. I like to say that made me independent. I think it’s really made me distant to people.

In high school, when I was slowly losing my mind, I remember us getting in a fight one day, and her telling me that I say terrible things to her. I still don’t think I did. I mean, I knew what my friends said to their parents and I wouldn’t dream of ever saying shit like that to my mother. In retrospect, I think it was the bad mix of a volatile bipolar (amongst other things) teenage girl and a clinically depressed woman. I would yell or be upset and she would take everything to heart. Every word engraved on her fragile psyche, forever.

I’m better now… in the sense that I’m trained to act relatively normal, and then go home and blow up or shut down or whatever in the privacy of my own home, where no one can hear me scream but the dogs. I still go home and cry a lot. I also sometimes go home and drink, or smoke, or take a percocet, or maybe all three if I’m feeling particularly like life is meaningless. I have gotten better about going home and eating, though… so… improvement.

Yesterday I caught myself self-harming. Back in the day I was cutter. Being so pale, as I am, you can’t see most of the scars, though. I’ve since learned that things like that make people aware… so I took a can of air duster, held it upside down, and sprayed it at my arm. I’ve done it before. It hurts, because the fluids inside are cold to keep the air compressed. It’s a biting kind of pain that it comparable to putting your hand on a hot stove. You lurch away from the immediate feeling, but it lingers… spiking now and then. So long as you don’t do it too long, there’s no lasting evidence you did anything. Your skin will get a little red… if you do it often you might get some blistering… Two weeks ago I did it WAY too long and I developed first stages of frostbite. Even now, the skin that took the most damage is just a little scaly. You can’t really see it anymore, but I can feel it when I run my fingers over the spot.

I guess until yesterday I didn’t think of this game as self harm, to be honest. I’ve always like the cold from canned air. I used to play with it all the time. It’s only in the past few years I’ve taken it farther than I used to… pushing my cold limits.

I think I’d be a mostly great mom, just like mine was… but with these habits of mine… with these mood swings and necessity to decompress once a day in a blaze of emotional turmoil… I can’t subject a kid to that. It’s bad enough I subject the dogs to that…

Related/Unrelated: Got the new Ghost Town album today! Here’s a song off of it that’s kinda related to this entry.

Getting Dragged Down

So I’m Bipolar. Amongst other things.
Let’s start there.

You may have heard the phrase “trigger” being thrown around the internet by people. Usually, and I don’t care who hates me for saying it, this term is used when someone says something that offends another person on the internet, or brings up something that reminds someone of something they’re trying to forget. It’s kind of a bullshit term for, “I can’t handle this, but I don’t have the common sense to get the fuck off the computer.”

As a person with mental illness, well out of my teen years, I’m not really into that scene. If you say trigger to me, I stop talking to you. I can’t even deal with your bullshit. I have my own, and I don’t run around trying to tell people not to say or do things just because they make me feel like I’m full of worms and decayed flesh. That’s not real life. Real life is a word stabbing pain into your gut like a knife, and you swallowing hard before plastering a smile across your face anyways as people laugh at something that brings you excruciating pain. Real life is getting up and dragging your ass out of bed even though your whole being is begging you to just lie there in bed until you die. Real life is feeling your world crashing down around you, and still just going about your life like any other person. Real life is going home and drowning your pain in some vice of your choice, and still getting up the next day like it never happened. That’s life.

When I say trigger. I mean a trigger. I mean that in the midst of all this fake living I do for the sake of appearance and normality, something has managed to work its way deep into the recesses of my inner being and poke at just the right spot to cause my chest to cave in. I mean that I’ve managed to crash through the floor of my depression, and that I now have to spend some time wallowing around in the black ink of despair for a while, all while maintaining the best outward expression of normality that I can. It’s quite exhaustive.

My trigger, more often than not, always comes from my mother. That’s not to say that my mother is abusive, or that she sets unrealistic expectations for me, or any of that. My mom’s great… But she is horrifically depressed. Most days I can more or less brush it off, but sometimes it just eats at me like a disease. I mean any conversation with her feels like she’s not even remotely listening to me, which bothers me immensely, and any time I ask her about things she puts such a grey cast on it that I can feel myself getting pulled down with her.

If you don’t know, there are levels of to mood… I arrange them by color.
The white zone is mania. I love the white zone. I can get so much done… I’m irrationally happy… I am just excitement and awesome and life is grand.
The red zone is manic anger… I like that one, too, but it’s because I come up with the cruelest revenge plots… I don’t usually get to act on them, though, because I burn through the adrenaline too fast.
The blue zone is contentment. That’s the moment when I wake up feeling refreshed, and I look around at my dogs and just smile to myself and spend all day reading and sipping tea, and everything is just kind of okay. I don’t get to spend a lot of time here.
The beige zone is what I imagine most people live in. I’m not up, or down. I’m just kinda here. It’s where usually am when I go out with friends, because I like going out, but I don’t usually like whatever my friends might have dragged me to.
The gray zone is where my mother lives. It’s sad, but it’s not bawling or anything. You just feel shit, and you enjoy nothing, and even if you think you might enjoy something, a piece of your brain kicks on that reminds you why you can’t enjoy this moment… I don’t spend much time here, myself… instead…I end up in the black. That’s usually a term for not being in debt, but I’m crazy in debt… For me in the black refers to the void. When I get dragged down, you can see nail tracks in the grey as I speed past it down into the black. It’s where my soul goes to die. I don’t like it there, as you might imagine. It’s like my brain is stuck in a tar pit. Everything I try to do to get out makes the experience worse. I get dragged farther and farther down until I can’t even see a glimmer of the white zone anymore. It’s usually when I curl up somewhere (the shower is a great curling spot) and just try not to feel anything.

Feeling nothing is better than the black. Or maybe it’s part of it. I’m never sure. I just know that if I can manage to feel nothing, I can resurface somewhere in the gray or beige zone and work from there. The important thing is to get out of the black… to find some way to rise up out of the darkness and not kill myself or something equally as irrational and stupid (because all that shit makes perfect sense in the black).

At work or anywhere that isn’t home, however, I can’t curl in a ball somewhere and wait it out. No, instead I have to figure out some way to claw my way out of the black without losing my composure… without anyone noticing. Some attempts are better than others. Sometimes I can sit at my desk, take a Xanax, and listen to music until I’m kind of okay. Sometimes I end up snapping at people. Sometimes I end up hiding in the bathroom until I’m sure I’m not going to lose it. None of these things are particularly effective. I’m going to be in the gray or the black all day. There’s no way to pull myself out, because I have nowhere to reset.

Today that overwhelming feeling of of black has decided that I’m not going to eat. Fortunately, I’m fat from all the binge eating I usually do when I’m upset, so I won’t actually suffer for it, but it does give me a queasy feeling that makes me irrationally sad. Also, I’m cancelling things I love… I might re-up later, but when I get like this I just want to get rid of everything I own or do, and just stay in my house forever…. never seeing anyone, never leaving, just me and the dogs… maybe order some books from the internet to occupy my mind… It’s a bad feeling. I don’t like it. I don’t like this side of me. I don’t like the monster I turn into when my moods change.

Werewolf

I’ve been told that his is what it’s like to watch my moods change.

Nothing’s going to make this right, right now. Maybe when I get home eight or so hours from now, then it will all be fine. Maybe I can crawl into bed and sleep it off, or cry it out, or throw something at a wall and watch the shattered pieces as a metaphor for my insides…