All In a Night

You spend too much time thinking of him. Your greatest fear is that it’s all for nothing. That you’re just being obsessive, and it’s never gonna happen. Not for you. But it could happen, couldn’t it? It’s the eighties. You’ve seen the movies. The main character finally realizes the partner he always wanted was with him all along. He makes his bold declaration of love, and they live happily ever after. End scene. Roll credits.

Most of your friends have already fallen in love. It seems so easy and effortless for them. Why is it so hard for me?

Then the night comes. Your time. You don’t know when or exactly how the cycle started; you only know you can’t wait for it to come. Strange how something can feel so necessary and dreadful all at the same time.
You down your first few drinks to achieve maximum effect: one every thirty seconds. As the initial buzz settles in, a blurry haze dulls your sight, but not your mind. No, you still think, so you drink. You have to do anything you can to get away from the pain.

Your friend walks toward you. She seems slightly surreal, just like everything at this point. Every edge, every contour is no longer sharp and defined. It’s all just a little bit off. She asks if you want to smoke. You tell her you’ve quit, but then say, “What the fuck. You only live once.” The problem is you don’t want to live like this anymore, not if you can’t be with him. That’s ridiculous. Stop being so dramatic. You’re so annoying.

You gotta fight the feelings. You sit on the bathroom floor and watch your friend light up the joint. The glowing tip has a hypnotic effect on you. She passes it your way. You take a few hits. You lose track of time and place. You sink further and further away. You barely feel yourself moving now. Your friend starts laughing uncontrollably. You start laughing too, but you don’t know why. You both laugh harder at the fact that neither of you knows why you’re laughing. The next few minutes, you’re floating through the hallways. You actually can’t feel your feet touching the ground. This feels good. This feels right. Is this what it means to be carefree?

Then the thoughts abruptly return.

No, you can’t take it. Drink some more. You kid yourself one more will definitely kill the pain, but it doesn’t.

More pot. You choke on its harshness.

Someone gets the bright idea of going off campus. The local bars card, but it’s a college town, so you’re pretty confident you’ll get in. As you wait in line, you look to see who’s bouncing at the door. You breathe a sigh of relief when you recognize the face. He stamps your hand, and you walk in with just a hint of pride. There’s something thrilling about getting into the bars. You wonder how it’ll feel when you’re actually twenty-one.

The music is loud, so loud it feels like the base is pounding inside your chest. You and your friends head to the dance floor. Dance. Escape. This feels good. This feels right. Meet a stranger. There’s always a stranger. Feel needed, wanted. You can’t do this. You tell yourself you must be strong.

Denial. Guilt. Nausea.

The bathroom is like most of its kind. Walls riddled with graffiti; toilet paper scattered everywhere. Don’t sit on the seat for fear of disease. Is that even a real thing? Can you catch something that way? You can’t recall who told you, but you distinctly remember someone knew someone else who didn’t hover and got something. Your legs shake a little from all the squatting. You’re happy there’s squares to spare on the last roll in the stall. Half-finished cocktails litter the counter. A cup spills. Did I do that? You’re pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t stain your outfit. There isn’t any soap. Why isn’t there ever any soap? Your shoes stick to the floor. You wonder if a place like this is ever really clean.

Rinse your hands but don’t look up. The mirror is there. You can’t face it. Can’t deal. Look. Look long and hard. See what’s staring back at you. Is it really you? It can’t be. You were always the innocent one, the hope. Your mind turns to thoughts of your future. You realize you’re living in this fantasy land, this bubble called college, but you can’t stay there forever. Summer’s coming. You have no job, no plans. Time is slipping away. What are you gonna do? Why can’t you be more like your friends? They go out and party too, but they actually have fun! They don’t waste time in the restroom feeling sorry for themselves. No wonder he doesn’t want to go out with you. Why would he? Cut the shit!

Try to forget. You lean your head against the paper towel dispenser and close your eyes. In this sudden blanket of darkness, you see twinkling gold specks of light. It feels as if they’re circling you like stars. You remember your childhood and how you loved field trips to the planetarium. You could sit for hours gazing up at the simulated heavens. You loved it when the announcer pointed out all the different constellations. You would go home and search for them in the night sky. There wasn’t any thinking about relationships or worrying about the future. There were just the stars and you. You wish you could go back and sit in that sweet stillness again. You wish you could go somewhere, anywhere. If I could just get past this part. But you can’t outrun your own mind, and your foolish heart will always drag you right back down to here and now.
The door opens jarring you back to reality. It’s two girls wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing. You hate them on sight. They giggle and cluck with alcohol-fueled, squeaky voices. Why does every girl sound like freaking Minnie Mouse when they’re wasted?! You can’t wait for them to leave. They look at you strangely, their eyes taking in every inch of you. Their silent critiques and judgment screaming in your head. But you only stare back, unwilling to have a confrontation. The last thing you need to do is open that big mouth of yours and start something. We’re not getting kicked out because of your stupidity. They stumble out, leaving behind the sweet, sickening smell of hairspray and cheap perfume.

You want to cry, so you do. Gotta sober up, get control. Rinse your face, put on fresh makeup, and fix your hair. Go through the motions. You give yourself one last look in the mirror, regretting everything you see. You agree with every unspoken insult you’re sure those two girls held about you. You leave the restroom in disgust and return to the wild.

You’re more than ready to go home now, but you don’t. Instead, you drink more hoping to forget, yet knowing all along you can’t. The stranger is back. You dance. You look into his eyes and search for love but find only a glassy film. Kiss him again and again, anything to feel complete. Anything to avoid his dull, drunken stare. He leaves you again. You see him a short time later flirting with another girl. Is that one of the girls from the bathroom? You try to care, but you don’t. This makes you even angrier. As strange as it may sound, you feel cheap. You try and tell yourself shit happens and it’s ok. It’s all part of being away at college. You’re supposed to hook up and have fun. Fun? You try to remember the last time any of this was fun. This isn’t you. Weren’t you always the one who…

It is 2:30 am. Time to go home. You hope your friend is sober enough to drive. She seems fine. You climb into the back because you forgot to call shotgun earlier. Ride home in a fog. You appreciate the coolness of the window as you gently rest your head against it. Your mind will not clear. You want to be sober. You know what’s coming. You have two choices: sober up or pass out. You can’t deal. Then, without any invitation, the thoughts return. The question comes too: Why doesn’t he love me? You don’t understand, so you can’t accept. If only we weren’t friends, it would be easier. You wonder where he is tonight and with whom. You try to hate him but find it impossible. One friend says she can’t wait to call her boyfriend when she gets back to the dorm. You desperately want to call him, but you won’t. Guilty feelings. Why? You can’t save yourself forever. And he sure isn’t abstaining for you.

You just want to sleep, forget. You stumble back to your room. You notice you have no peripheral vision, just a narrow, focused tunnel that leads you straight to your door. Your roommate is home for the weekend, so you can turn on the lights. But you don’t. Darkness is your friend. The night belongs to you. You turn on music and let the sad songs say so much. You cry. Again. You feel like you’ll never stop, never be happy. You want to run, want to tell your friends, but you’ve burdened them enough. You get frustrated with yourself for not coping better. You’re so pathetic. What is wrong with you?! You want to die, but you’re too scared, or something.

You climb into bed forgetting to brush your teeth. You close your eyes. The room spins. You fight now to stay awake, but the alcohol is winning. You no longer want to sleep, because if you sleep, you’ll dream. And when you dream, you dream of him. No, tonight will be different. I won’t dream about him. I think I read if you concentrate hard enough right before you fall asleep, you can control what you dream about. It’s got to work. Except it doesn’t. You dream of him all night. Different scenes, different situations, but each one ends the same. You’re left alone.

You wake up bathed in sweat, mouth of cotton. You stagger from your bed to the refrigerator. You grab the ice-cold pitcher of water you set up before you went out last night. It is 1:05 pm. You swallow two aspirins and all the water. You rub your eyes. What is going on here? Look hard into the mirror. It is not your friend. It shows you what you do not want to see, what you really are. Look harder. Lose focus.

Dizziness overwhelms you. You fall against the closet doors. Another day, find another reason to keep going. You take a long, hot shower and rest your head against the waterspout. The water feels good, warm, and protective. You don’t want to get out. Everything makes sense and feels safe here. Something about the rhythmic sound of the water drowns out the thoughts. You can just be for a few glorious moments. This feels good. This feels right.

There’s no guilt, no shame, no regret. There’s no endless questioning, no fear of the future. It’s the one place where you can be naked and not feel embarrassed or ashamed, disgusted with every imperfection and ounce of cellulite. And for once the only thing spiraling is the water as it runs down the drain. You dry and dress. Grab food. It is now 5:00 pm. You’ve been able to keep the thoughts from intruding…until now. You cry for help, but no one seems to hear you. You have to escape.

You grab a drink. And the night begins.