One Weekend

 I went to Georgia last weekend with my performance class to perform at a festival. Seven hours there and seven hours back. All we did was laugh and joke around the entire time. I haven’t laughed and had that much fun in–forever. It was nice not having to worry about a single thing for once in my life. Not one single thing. I didn’t have to worry about school or planning things or work or home stuff or my parents or homework or anything. I got to relax. I got to have fun doing things that I have fun doing. I got to perform. I got to be around people whom I enjoy working with. It was the shortest weekend of my life.

And now I’m back. And everything comes flooding back. It was as if time stopped for me, but then it continued in its tidal wave form, knocking me over. I missed turning in an essay today. I’m a stupid fucking moron for missing it. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it up because I didn’t even go to class. I couldn’t. I was exhausted from this weekend. I couldn’t get out of bed to save my life. I have other things due in a short period of time too. It’s overbearing, anxiety inducing. I don’t want to be here. I want to run away again and never come back. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to worry. I can’t stand it.

I’m two months clean today, and I want to break it. I want to feel better. I want to stop thinking. I want to sleep and not wake up for a while. But I can’t, and I have so much shit to do. I have a performance tomorrow, and I need to go back over it. There’s a paper, that I haven’t started, due with it. Ugh.

I had another dream about her last night. It’s always the same dream always ending the same way: I wake up. I’m still trying to get over it. It doesn’t help that I see her almost every day. But seeing her also comforts me. She’s one of the few people I can spill anything to. Almost. I can’t tell her how I’ve felt lately. I can’t tell her about my dreams. I can’t tell her how I feel about she and her boyfriend. I can’t. It won’t help. It’ll only complicate. It won’t make a difference. Nothing. 

There aren’t many people I can feel a connection to. That’s what I hate. I hate how incessant my feelings are with her. I wish I could drop it. I wish I could cease feeling the way I do about her. She’s special. I hate it. She was able to take over my brain and mash it with a sledgehammer. I know it’s infatuation. I don’t get infatuated often. But I fell for her. I wish it would stop. I wish it would stop. But it won’t, so I’m continually stuck waking up every morning and blundering through life in hopes something will change. My brain is cancer. It tortures me, and it won’t stop until I’m dead. The best I can do is seek comfort in my vices and medicate myself to sleep in hopes I won’t wake up in the morning.

I wish I could stay happy for more than one weekend.