I’ve been binging like a motherfucker. Every single day, for at least seven days, I have binged. It’s terrible. A part of me is hopeful I’ll get my period just so at least I’ll have a reason for the insanity. Another part of me is just accepting it and trying not to make myself go crazy over it. Another part is just. So. Over. It. All.
I did a really great monologue in class today. Portia, from Julius Caesar. It was a particular achievement since I literally memorized this quite circular four-page monologue last night at like 10pm and then today on the subway. Skillz, y’all.
I texted L the other day to apologize for being distant. I told her that I’d had a really tough week (basically explicitly said I was depressed), and that I hoped to be more present in future. I also invited her to be my plus one to a mutual friend’s show this week. No response. And she didn’t come to Shakespeare today. So it’s been since Wednesday night that I heard from her, though I texted on Thursday, Sunday, and today… Nothing. She’s been playing Words with Friends, a good sign, and occasionally tweeting and Facebooking, so she’s not… god, I almost said “dying.” Anyway you take it, this is causing me excessive anxiety– and not from worry about her but shame I’m putting on myself (isn’t narcissism great?).
I’m ashamed that I must’ve done something wrong that made her mad at me.
I’m ashamed that I had a drink with a friend before WIT when she couldn’t.
I’m ashamed that I am healthy and auditioning and she’s not, and I’m ashamed that I’ve started talking about it in front of her again– I really should stop.
I’m ashamed that I wasn’t there for her this week because I had to tend to my own depressive gardens.
These are clearly quite healthy thinking processes.
What the hell. I did a good monologue. That’s something to hold onto for a moment.
The rest of the week, I have work tomorrow, my callback in NJ on Wednesday (the annoying thing about callbacks is they allow you to actually want the part– making it much more miserable when you don’t book it), an audition for a student film and for a regional production of a musical (? who am I?) on Thursday, something with Magis on Saturday, and Sunday tea party with Leslie and a few other girlfriends at one of our professor’s apartments (can I tell you how psyched I am to see this woman’s place? She runs the directing program and she’s an enigma).
The rest of the week, I hope to go to the gym at least twice, I hope to not binge every day, I hope to do my Shakespeare homework. I hope to shower a normal number of times. I hope to not feel that hot, prickly feeling of shame and sadness. I hope not to cry, but if I do, to not cry for shame.
OH AND GUESS WHO JUST TEXTED ME BACK.
She said “thanks for remembering” that she was at Sloan tomorrow and no worries her parents were going to be there. And sorry she hadn’t been in touch, she’d been “sorting through some stuff and needed some alone/reflecting time.”
I can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse. A normal person would feel better, right? I know how I’m supposed to respond, but I get incredibly anxious about what it all “means.” It probably just means she was depressed like me.
So… I also hope I don’t feel so freaking crazy much longer. I am all over the place.
Love to all. Sorry for the word vomit.
“I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am consuming my life. To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers, to tear them from their stems, and trample the roots that bore them under foot. Am I not a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally diseased? Yet it is always the same, same old story, till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception, that I am being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy, and I sometimes tremble lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum… I did not know my readers, but for some reason I imagined they were distrustful and unfriendly; I was mortally afraid of the public, and when my first play appeared, it seemed to me as if all the dark eyes in the audience were looking at it with enmity, and all the blue ones with cold indifference. Oh, how terrible it was! What agony!”
— Anton Chekhov (Trigorin in The Seagull)