So here I am, once again, at two o’clock in the morning, spilling my guts onto my phone, and out to whoever may read this. I posted it on my Twitter before, but a thread can only be so long before you roll your eyes. So, luckily for y’all, you clicked on this, hopefully prepared for a bit of a rant.
Yesterday, February 24th 2018, was my 25th birthday. Crazy, right? A couple of my closest friends and I decided to go out to celebrate at a bar where I spent 95% of my money, and some of my parents money too, in college (I’m sorry mom). These girls are my family here. We are thick as thieves. I would do anything for them. And I am so blessed to have been able to spend my night with them.
A bit of pretext here for those who I don’t see very often. I am very focused on getting my life in order lately. I don’t go out often. Before last night, I hadn’t had more than two drinks in probably a year. It’s just not my scene anymore. My anxiety combined with the fact that my days off are spent sleeping, kind of stops me from bar hopping. I was excited to get dolled up and go out to my old stomping grounds.
I decided to do my hair and makeup before I picked an outfit. I felt like 12 million bucks. I called Brandon about seven times during that whole process to show him. My makeup looked bomb as fuck, and my hair was making me feel some type of way. You couldn’t have told me anything. I was on top of the world. Until I walked into my closet. My go to outfit is a pencil skirt with some type of top tucked in. Always has been, because my body is shaped like a blown up hourglass. I went directly for the skirt. And next, I reached into my underwear drawer, and I felt my entire disposition change. My spanx weren’t there. I tore my closet apart.
I felt my chest get heavy, and I pulled every piece of underwear out of the drawer, and the shirts out of the next, and so on and so forth. I started to tear up. I had just put lashes on, I knew I couldn’t waste them. That’s logic, right? I went in, touched up my eyeliner, and then continued searching for them. I still have no idea where they could be. In the meantime, I went into Jacki a room while she was picking out an outfit. I don’t think she knew how badly I was panicking, but she always makes me laugh. She was picking at herself in the mirror, just how I was minutes prior. I listened to words pour out of my mouth about how tonight we were going to be strong, and brave, and wear what we wanted. And she put on an outfit that looked incredible on her. She is so beautiful. I put the pencil skirt on, and we went off to celebrate.
I went to the bathroom four times to make sure my stomach wasn’t hanging out, or that the makeshift spanx I created weren’t creating lines. I tugged and pulled and twisted until I was drunk enough that I forgot to look. And the final time I looked in the mirror, I was 17 again. Hating everything about myself. Hearing the girls in gym make fun of me for trying too hard. I had to pretend to be in a stall so I could breathe for a second because I swear the air was not in my lungs anymore.
We had a great time. My friends and I danced and joked and stayed out late, and at the end of the night we all hugged, said our I love yous, and went home. I stayed in my room until four o’clock today. I couldn’t pull myself out of bed, except to vomit, and wash my face.
Anxiety got the best of my night, but it will not ruin the memories I made yesterday, and it will not ruin me, or my friends.
I know, I fucking know that someone, somewhere, has felt this way before. And I guess the reason I’m writing this tonight is to tell you that you are not alone. We are in this together. I will stand before you and behind you. We will beat this.
Cheers to that 17 year old girl who didn’t think she’d make it, and to the girl who turned 25 yesterday. And to you.
All of my love,
K.
