There are few things as dumb founding as waking up one morning and realising that one is teetering quite precariously on the edge of depression. A few months ago, after going for days without chocolate or reality TV(and noticing an odd bruise on my right thigh that was turning green-no recollection whatsoever of how it was acquired), I finally accepted the symptoms as out of character and evidence of some mysterious forces forcing me to abstain from my addictions. (the bruise was an incidental and I still have no clue how…why…).
The things that have been going on in my life for the last ±12 months have all boiled down to one situation-I have been unhappy forever and the only therapist I’ve allowed my non-progressive self to cry the inner workings of my slowly shutting down mind to has been my low rental, cosy and white walled room. (I’ve always looked down upon people who see shrinks because I could never imagine pouring out my deepest, darkest and nastiest to an absolute stranger who probably has devil spawn children and is still in the closet).
Red wine became my best friend and I was always armed with gallons in my blood stream before tackling a night on the town. I mean this is standard behaviour for a college girl from across the way who can’t afford a cab to Long Street, entry into my favourite club AND to walk in sober – all in one night – but I’m talking everyday. One of the managers at the Tops around the corner yells “Shiraz or Pinotage today?” every time I walk in. (Hides face behind perfectly manicured nailed hands).
Anyway, on the morning I self diagnosed as an angry unhappy (albeit sexy and charming) 22 year old female, I got up, picked up my celly and messaged my brother (thank God for BBM- a la Xigubu) and told him I loved him. I WhatsApped my little brother and told him he’s made me proud because he’s the first of his siblings to don a gown and graduate-we never thought we’d see the day. I emailed my parents and let them know I was content with the life they have provided-for now. One day I’m going to be insanely successful and own a walk-in closet to house my many many shoes along with a well stocked wine cellar to cater for my vice.
The moral of the story is pity parties are no fun because can’t nobody dance with you. I love the people in my life that make me happy. I even love the assholes the contribute to the drama in my life that allows me to tell ridiculously entertaining stories about the numerous awkward moments and fantastical escapades. I have too much to live for to spend my time wallowing in misery and drowning in my booze (although I don’t mind the drowning that much).
Peace, love and the absence of psychologists.