I have been so depressed this week. I was trying to decide if it was just a week-long hangover from the two bottles of wine Pav and I split on Sunday, if it was the cold that I've been waiting to get, but I've come to the conclusion that I've just been really, really depressed. Can't get to sleep, except when I do, sleeping 15-16 hours, finding it impossible to get out of bed, showing up for work later and later, absolutely no desire to accomplish anything significant--yeah, that reminds me of me five or six years ago.
Zac and Diego were hanging out last night at the bar, to my extreme delight, and when Diego went out to smoke a cigarette, Zac asked me if I was okay and I almost burst into tears. Zac kind of brings that out in me--he's the most sincere person I've ever known.
I've successfully cut out everyone in my life, except for immediate family and forever friends, upon whom I might call to assist me at this juncture. Katie's got her own problems, and our attempt at reconciliation is at an impasse. Jenny's just...kind of a waste of time, to be honest. Remarkably shallow, and with horrible taste in friends. Seriously, the people she brings around are so unbelievably trashy. Deanna's gone, and I was sick of her anyway. Euliza's still around, but -- and I'm being cruel here knowing this is locked -- I've been listening to her talk about her horrible husband for going on two years now, and I've said all I can say. It's like it was with Sam and Paul--eventually, I just had to say that I couldn't have the same conversation anymore. Which reminds me, Sam's definitely a part of the past. I don't come back easily from being accused of being a bad friend, and I don't care how drunk she was.
I'm just so sick of myself. I'm sick of crying at the drop of a hat (and not being able to blame it on PMS). I'm sick of not really having anyone to talk to, or refusing to talk about what I'm going through because if I'm sick of it, everyone else must be sick of it -- except they aren't, because I haven't spoken with anyone about it, which is why I'm in this situation in the first place. I just don't know what to do.
And Pav, God...he came over on Sunday and made me a ridiculous meal accompanied with two glorious bottles of wine and we watched The Mighty Boosh (my choice) and a French movie (his) and, like, he's such a ridiculously good person, classy, interesting, intelligent, willing to put up with me, but there's some sort of overarching awkwardness that I can't get pass.
Maybe I'll find the energy to fix everything, but in the meantime, I'm going to go ahead and put all my energy into trying not to feel sorry for myself. It is, after all, simply a matter of laying in the bed of my making.
And, just so we're all clear on this, CELIBACY SUCKS.