I suppose it makes sense to begin this entry after the longest period of sleep I had.
Apart from being tapped on the shoulder by a flight attendant and groggily reaching for a piece of chocolate banana bread this morning, the most sleep I had last night was an hour and half between 6 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. I don’t remember taking off from Newark, but was woken up by the bumpy landing at Toronto City Airport.
Given the fact that I was working at The Clubhouse today, I had a small window of time to get my bearings and figure out a plan of attack while we taxied to the terminal. Once the seatbelt sign had been turned off, I was out of my seat and off the plane like a bat out of hell. Or, more fittingly, like Kurt when he drinks and runs away from his friends. Or perhaps like Kurt when he runs away from commitment. Or from a cash register when he’s supposed to pay for something. Whichever it was, I was moving fast.
I grabbed my luggage, ran through the tunnel, pole vaulted onto the shuttle bus, caught the subway, and sprinted to my apartment. After rummaging through my suitcase, I slapped some deodorant on my body – which I was convinced had now started rotting from the inside out – then grabbed my cross-body pouch and returned to the subway.
I managed to get myself to The Clubhouse for 9:03 a.m. I swear to God, it wasn’t even 9:07 a.m. before Stella cornered me in the hallway. Apparently, I had made an error with one of the weekend event bookings, which was scheduled over a month ago. A “0” had accidentally been added to a party size of 15, causing The Clubhouse to over-staff the event. Why Stella thought she could fit 150 people in a meeting room the size of my shoebox apartment was beyond me. Fortunately for Stella, I was hardly functioning at this point. I was not in the right frame of mind to perform my usual role of Elle Woods, debating everything I was accused of.
Stella wasn’t finished with me. The bitch’s second complaint was yet another comment on my phone mannerisms. Evidently, I had been snitched on for not answering the front desk phone with Stella’s 17-minute greeting when a staff member’s name appeared on the caller ID. That fucker was Hugo, the club’s food and beverage manager. As I am writing this, I’m getting angrier and angrier. I’ll be speaking to Hugo about this tomorrow.
Pissed off to hell and completely exhausted, I returned to the front desk. I sulked in my chair for most of the day, on the verge of tears and texting Mom that I’d had absolutely enough of this hellhole and wanted to quit. I also called Mom on and off throughout the day, whenever I had more than five minutes of silence.
As part of my front desk duties, I am responsible for ordering the daily meals for each department’s manager. When I took Stella’s lunch order later in the day, I received yet another reprimand for the booking error. Now, I’d had enough.
“Why are there no checks in place to bring attention to the fact that there were 150 guests booked inside a 10-foot by 10-foot room?” I asked.
“Oh, well. The thing is...” Stella began to stutter. “Actually, you know what? It’s not my issue. You should talk to Hugo.”
Unbelievable.
As if all of this weren’t enough, Hannah and Heather from the events department visited the front desk this afternoon. A piece of mail had come in for Heather, so I handed her the envelope.
“Maybe it’s another fat tip,” I joked, casually calling back to the large bonus Heather had received from one of her event bookings last week.
I didn’t think much of my comment. In fact, I didn’t think about it at all.
About an hour later, I got a phone call from Heather at the desk.
“I cannot believe the stunt you just pulled,” Heather yelled through the phone. “How dare you say that in front of Hannah. That’s my boss. Do you know how bad that makes me look?”
What the fuck was this bitch going on about?
“Seriously?” I asked. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was a big deal. Last week, you were waving around your tip like the leader of a Brazilian tour group holding a flag.”
Heather changed her tune. The escaped insane asylum patient was now saying it wasn’t a big deal. The damage had been done, though. It really bothered me that Heather had the nerve to call me out on something that clearly wasn’t my fault. Bitch, you’re the shady one. Don’t put that shit on me.
I wrung out a half-assed apology. Heather’s mood changed yet again, and she had now begun lecturing me. After that, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why the fuck is everyone on my case today?” I asked Heather. “This is absolutely outrageous.”
I hung up the phone. In what was perhaps my most dramatic move at The Clubhouse yet, I went into the coat closet and cried. I sat on the floor with tissues in my hand, a heavy stream of snot flowing from my nose, and I let it all out. I didn’t care if a co-worker saw me. I didn’t care if a member was waiting at the desk. If anything, I wished there was someone around to see this mess.
Never in my life have I been treated like this at a job. I’ve joked about it, but The Clubhouse and their antics really are a form of abuse. I refuse to take it anymore. I will be quitting in the next couple of weeks.
The day rounded out with Stella being a completely psychotic, bi-polar cunt. The Wicked Witch of The Clubhouse had now morphed into a happy, smiling, inquisitive co-worker, asking all about my trip to New York City. I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I also wasn’t in the mood for any further confrontation.
Come 4 p.m., I ran out of The Clubhouse as fast as I could. About 15 minutes later, I came to the jarring realization that not only had I left a job posting open on the front desk computer, but I had forgotten to log out of my Gmail. I ran back to The Clubhouse in a panic, and shut everything down. The evening desk girl said she didn’t notice anything was still open, but who knows? I don’t really care. At this point, it would be easier to be fired.
While walking home, I called Mom again. We talked for almost an hour about everything. The job situation, my housing, my drinking – all of it. As for The Clubhouse, I’m going to see what happens with my upcoming three-month review, along with the vacation time I’ll be requesting tomorrow. Either way, I will definitely be resigning in the near future. I cannot take this mental abuse anymore.
This morning, I emailed my landlord and asked what the move-out process would be. I’m still waiting to hear back.
Mom and I are going to look at talking to Dr. Cohen about my drinking, along with the possibility of going back on an anti-depressant. We’ll also be looking into AA meetings as we devise a plan for me to better control my drinking.
One thing about Mom that is so different from me – and I mean this in a very good way – is that she is not an extremist by any means. I am. I’m all or nothing, all the time. Mom is more of the moderation camp. In this case, Mom doesn’t think it’s reasonable to ask someone to stop drinking entirely. For me, that’s exactly the issue.
I don’t know how to have one drink. Mom’s argument is that I need to learn moderation, in addition to asking for help from those around me. “Ask your friends to slow you down when they think you’ve had too much,” she says.
Are all moms like this? I’d have a hard time believing that. If they were, there would be no issues in the world. My mom is the greatest human being this earth has ever seen. After my talk(s) with Mom today, I felt like a new person.
Following a quick stop for my weekly groceries, I made dinner at the Witch Cave and eventually passed out on the couch. When I woke up a couple of hours later, I masturbated and then talked to some friends – all of whom were still very concerned about me. Dan and Lauryn followed up on their messages from yesterday, and then I talked to both Greg and Natasha. I have such amazing friends. The fact that they have all offered unsolicited help is so incredibly uplifting. I know I can overcome this.
The problem I am having right now is that I’ve reached the point where the hangover is gone. I’ve cried it out. My headache is gone. If you saw me on the street, everything would seem fine. I have all of my teeth, along with a refreshing absence of visible cuts and bruises. However, the pain inside remains. I don’t want to lose sight of the issues that I have. I don’t want to go back to thinking that everything is okay, or that I’m alright with my job, or that my drinking isn’t an issue. There are so many problems in my life that disappear for a while, only to return later in full force – sometimes even worse than before. I need to keep a close watch on everything I am doing right now.
I told Mom about my dream of quitting The Clubhouse and moving to California. I think it’s a possibility. Mom said if that’s what I want to do, I should give it my all. If it doesn’t work out, at least I’ll have tried. Otherwise, I’ll never know. I feel empowered, but I also feel extremely vulnerable. I have a huge support system, yet I know how many times I have failed. I am afraid to fail again.
More than anything in the world, I want to be a better version of myself. Having finally admitted my issues to so many people, maybe this time I can finally make the changes I’ve desperately wanted for so long.
I found myself sifting through some recent journal entries tonight. As I was reading the August 14 entry, I realized everything I wrote that night was exactly the same as what I had told Mom today. I wanted a sign to show me that I was ready to make a big move. Is this it?
After working on some writing while taking a very relaxing bath, I climbed into bed and wrote some more. At this point, “exhausted” is a complete understatement. It’s pushing midnight. At the risk of continuing this extreme exhaustion and developing a cold – of which I can feel the onset – I should go to sleep.
Wait a minute. I have a few more thoughts to touch on.
I’ve been talking to one of RX’s friends on Grindr. I won’t lie, it’s mostly because I want to piss off RX. Once again, he has completely disappeared on me. I’m a fool for displaying such a vulnerable side of myself to RX. I always fall for this.
Tomorrow at The Clubhouse, I’m going to request the time off for my Las Vegas weekend with Greg. We’ll see what hell that ensues. I have no doubt there will be one or more issues. If it leads me to a decision about continuing my employment with The Clubhouse, so be it.
I’m scared that I have a STD. My throat hurts like never before. It could be because I’m tired, or because I actually did catch something from Spencer or the drag queen and the boyfriend. Oy. “The Drag Queen and the Boyfriend” sounds like Disney’s next animated feature film.
I worry about changing. As much as I want to evolve and do better, I don’t want to dull myself. I know it’s about finding a middle ground, though. That’s what I’m searching for. In other words, no more blacking out, no more falling down, and no more hurting myself while having “fun.”
My luck is running out. I know it is. That’s why I’m scared. It’s my gut feeling right now, and definitely a large part of why I want to change. And it needs to happen fast. If I continue down this road any longer, I am going to die. I think about it constantly. When I wake up from the kind of nights I’ve been having, I feel like I should be dead. The fact that my mind now goes to that place scares the hell out of me. That’s how out of control I feel. I am so reckless that I think I am going to die.
Here’s to a new day. Stay confident, be proud, and never let anyone abuse you. Don’t abuse yourself, either. Things will be okay, but only if I take control. I think I’m finally stepping on the brakes of this speeding car. Not slamming on them, but definitely a heavy push. Considering the state of my Ford Focus, hopefully these brakes aren’t completely worn out, too.
I want to go to California and write.
Goodnight xo