A Day in My Mind: A 12+ Hour Review of My Mental State

Alright, so you're home from work now, Chloe. It's barely 10pm, let's take an hour or two for personal time to decompress and then let's start on that paper. 

It's around 10:00 pm, and I'm still on Instagram. Scrolling past the same posts so many times, to the point where my feed begins to show me things that were posted days ago. I've seen this all. I don't want to be scrolling anymore, I'm not doing anything at all with my time. I continue to scroll. 

It's 11:45 pm.  I've made a few posts that make me laugh. I like laughing. Laughing feels nice. I watch them over and over. Compulsively studying them, marveling in my own sense of humor. After I'm done laughing, my room is quiet. I watch them a few more times. 

It's 12:30 am. I want to do something else. I want to feel better. I put on a show that I like. I've watched every single episode of every single season of "American Dad!". I restart season whatever-the-fuck for the millionth time and go back on my phone. 

It's 1:00 am. I put my phone down and sit. I feel the last wisps of my self-patience disappear. I fucking hate being like this. I hate feeling stupid and lazy and disorganized. I know that's what some people must think of me. How disorganized. She obviously isn't serious. But I am. Of course I am. I just can't move. I need help. I'm thinking about this sober. I don't want to be sober, but I drank all of the wine last Wednesday, and I can't fathom getting up to go outside to smoke. I am stuck. I lay there. I want to text my girlfriend that I love her, but she's asleep and I say it too much anyway. Instead I text her that I'm thinking about her and that I miss her. I hope that she reads "I love you" from that anyway. I want to say more things but I don't know how. 


I don't know what time it is anymore. I've written in my journal, skimming over and avoiding talking in-depth about certain things. I tell myself that I'm focusing on one thing at a time. I'm full of shit. I want to cry, but I can't. I miss my friends. I post more funny things. They don't make me laugh anymore. I'd love to be asleep, but there's no chance in hell. I think about dying again. Not about killing myself, no not that. Just about dying. And being released back into the universe as energy. Or burning in hell for all eternity for being a dyke. Whatever, man. 


It's 3:00 am. How the fuck is it 3:00am. Fucking, fucking fuck-up. Ugh. What about the paper? I'll do it tomorrow.  It doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters. I sit and think about this. I go back on Instagram, re-watch my posts. I want to masturbate but that means getting up. I cannot move. I really have to pee, but I cannot move. I just lay there until I am literally milliseconds from pissing the bed before running to the bathroom. Moving feels nice. My room is fucking disgusting. There's clothes and shit everywhere. I'm trash. I need help. I'm just lazy. I don't want to be lazy anymore. I just can't move. Whatever. I find the energy to masturbate. I cum twice. Once from my imagination, once from porn. I've cum 4 times total today. Twice at work, twice right now. My orgasms are powerful and fleeting. I wish I could feel that way all the time. I try to fuck myself, but it doesn't feel good. I throw the toy on the other side of the bed. I'm all gooey. I don't like it. 


It's 4:30 am. All I want to be is unconscious. Instead, I am alert and awake. I stare down at my legs; they haven't moved for almost an hour. I can't feel them anymore. I wish I could do that everywhere. I need to meditate, I'm not grounded. I know this. This information sits flat in my mind; no actions have been queued to rectify it. I lay there. I hate it. I love it. This is my alone time. The only time where it's quiet, and I don't have to speak or move. Is it fair that it feels like this? No. But nothing is fair. And could I change this if I wanted to? Yes. I'm in control. This information sits flat in my mind; no actions have been queued to rectify it. 


It's 5:45 am. Am I fucking idiot? I have work at 9 in the morning. I'm going to be a zombie. I literally won't survive. I'm anxious; there's no way I can call in sick. I feel like I've been on thin ice there already. I  wish I didn't have to work this way. I want to die a little bit. Just a little. I check my work schedule - aye, I actually don't work until Thursday. Another celebratory Pornhub run. I cum to a video of this old, sturdy, ugly lady fucking this skinny white chick. It's in Russian or something, I don't know. Why can I only cum to the weird shit? I just want to be asleep. 


It's 9:00 am. I fell asleep somehow. The lights are off and so are my glasses, so I must have gotten up to do that at some point. I don't remember. My girl messages me back. I show her a letter that I wrote for her in October, and then put my phone under my pillow and try to force myself into unconsciousness before she can answer. I fall asleep a little. She responded 11 minutes ago. She loves it, says she wants the original. Cool. My chest stirs. I want to tell her something more. But I don't know what or how. I get sad and go back to bed. 

It's 10:50 am. Wake the fuck up, dumbass.  You still have so much to do. Do you know that some people are up and starting their day at 6:00am? Do you know how much time you've wasted doing absolutely nothing at all? Lazy. I stare at the ceiling in my filthy room. It feels like footage from "Hoarders", there's so much fucking shit. Party decorations, laundry, the dishes I finally washed three weeks ago, but have yet to put away. The spot where my shoes are beside my desk that I call the "mystery corner". I'm disgusting. I need to bathe. Why does anyone even want to touch me? I look in the broken ass mirror that I will never throw away because I still need to look at myself. I'm pretty. It's absolutely ridiculous that I am. I'm filthy. And weird. And sad. And fucked. But still pretty, I guess. I call my bestfriend. Talk to her about shit that doesn't matter, laugh a little bit. The shadows in my chest flit with each laugh. I tell her I need a pep-talk. She tells me that I never listen to her pep-talks. I beg her for another one anyway. She gives me a pep-talk. I hang up and ignore her pep-talk. 

It's 11:30 am. Get the fuck out of the fucking house. What do you want? You want weed? Is that the incentive we need? Of course. I put my phone on airplane mode. My girl is trying to give me a pep-talk of her own. I feel stupid with every message she sends. She's so right. Why am I not doing any of these things? I already know them, too. How embarrassing. How stupid. How lazy. I put my phone on airplane mode and pack bowl. It's full. I get dressed, looking at myself in the broken mirror. I've lost weight. It's because I don't like eating, and I walk everywhere. I like it. Eating is stupid. I think a lot of things are stupid. I'm fucking stupid. I get dressed and put on lip gloss with brown liner. I like that. I look nice. I stare at myself in the downstairs bathroom mirror. I wish ... I don't know what I wish. I have to leave the house now. 

It's 12:15 pm: I'm smoking in my favorite alley, by my house. As I was leaving, I got paranoid that the mail-woman behind me was going to arrest me for smoking weed. How the fuck does that even make any fucking sense? Anyway. My high is nice. I can always tell when it kicks in, cause the tree branches look a little different. I feel a little better. My phone is still on airplane mode. I wonder how I'm going to get to school. For free, of course. My options are: hop on the street car, hop over the turn-style at Spadina, or walk. It's kind of too cold to walk the whole way. I decide to wait for the streetcar. 


It's 1:30 pm. I watch the streetcar from the other side of the street. There's time to catch it, but I don't. I watch it drive away. I don't know why. I walk to school. It's very cold. Is this self-harm? I have music on to soothe me, but no song makes me feel okay. They all blend together, and I don't feel anything even when I sing along. As I walk, I run out of things to think about. My mind is still, and I am sad. I haven't been listening or connecting with myself. I've been neglectful. There are tears in my throat but I'm too scared to cry cause it's so fucking cold. I cry a little anyway. 


It's 2:45 pm. I'm in McDonalds. I plan my order as I'm walking in. Medium tripple/tripple. That's it. I am genuinely not interested in eating anything. I'm pretty high, and want caffeine to mix. I like the combination. It makes me buzz. Medium tripple/tripple. The lady at the front asks me what I'd like. I fumble, like a dumbass. What? Why is this even a hard question to answer? I hear myself order 6 chicken nuggets. What? Why? I need to eat. Ok, fine. 6 chicken nuggets and a medium tripple/tripple. I don't want fries. As I'm waiting for my order, other people begin to get theirs. Their fries look good. I want fries now. But fries are more money, and more calories. Chicken nuggets are enough. 6 chicken nuggets and a medium tripple/tripple. My food comes. I asked for it to-go, but know that I wont want to eat it cold - which it would surely be after a minute outside. I want to sit somewhere where no one will bother me if I start to cry. It's packed so that's not possible. I sit down somewhere and open the bag. The nuggets smell good. I take a bite. It's delicious. I'm elated - I begin to eat quickly, knowing this won't last. One full nugget down the hatch, woo! The next one almost makes it, but then the very last bite is suddenly gross to me. There's more brown stuff than white stuff. I'm grossed out. Fuck. I have four more nuggets to go. It's ok, they still taste good. I eat the next two almost entirely - leaving the last bite. Then I begin to eat them kind of like a watermelon - leaving a rind of brown batter in crispy half-moons. The last two are the hardest to eat. I rip them up in pieces and eat the little chunks. Not all but some. I'm yelling at myself in my head the whole time. What the fuck is wrong with you? You didn't want those at all. At least it's food. Ok, it's food but is it, though? What did you just even eat? Why did you eat garbage for $6.00 when you refused to pay $5.00 for some fruit before you came in here? Don't you love yourself? Don't you want to be healthy? It feels disgusting just sitting in your stomach. Throw it up. Ugh, I hate throwing up. I don't want to. Pussy. No, don't call yourself a pussy for not purging. Eating disorders are bad. Idiot. I need some water. I re-fill my plastic Nestle water-bottle at the fountain under the "Ice water" button. I'm scared that security will tap my shoulder. The stream goes everywhere. Obviously, jackass, it's meant to be poured into a cup, not a little bottle. The cold water hurts. In my haste, I accidentally also pour cold  Fruitopia and Diet Coke all over my hands and jacket sleeve. I take my time and wipe my hands with napkins. It's ok, you're doing your best. Your bottle is full, your hands are dry, you can leave now. You have a paper.


It's 3:20 pm. I'm in the computer lab at school. The computer is taking forever to log in. I almost cry again. I wish I could sob. I just want to fucking sob and sob. Why didn't I do that when I was home? Oh yeah, I couldn't. I almost cried a million times at Mc.Donalds too. What is with me today? I take my phone off airplane mode. I message my girl back. I want to tell her that I miss her, and that I want her to hold my hand. But I say that too much. So I say it in my head and text her "hi" instead. I think that I'm a bad partner. I don't want to be anymore. Why am I thinking of this when my paper is not done yet? There's a poster in front of my monitor for some magazine at my school. They had an event this past November. My poetry got selected to be displayed there, and I fucking forgot to go. What kind of fucking artist am I? My work was displayed there, and I wasn't there. How careless. How lazy. How stupid. I feel so dumb. This computer is taking too long. I move to the monitor beside it. I have to write my paper. I feel so crazy. I have to write my paper. 


It's 3:55 pm. I write an essay for my blog. It's different, kind of. I'm nervous that people will worry about me. I feel a little better and the exact same. How stupid. I still have my paper to write.