Last weekend I fucked up pretty badly, and my fuck-up triggered days of waterworks alternated with excessive sleep. Couldn’t concentrate on anything more demanding than loading the dishwasher and folding a couple of t-shirts. Assume the fetal position, Papillon, and stay there until the self-hatred stops.
It was the day of the Gay Pride parade, which ranks above Christmas as being one of my favorite days of the year. G-man, LittleMiss, Yellowbeard, S-Monkey and I started the day in fine form here at our place with champagne and orange juice. We floated down to Beach Avenue to watch the parade, which was, as it is every year, a kaleidoscope of rainbow colored balloons and beautiful people. LittleMiss had even made rainbow fairy wings for Stella out of shiny pipe cleaners. Absurdly cute!
After the parade and in keeping with tradition, we took Stella home then wondered up to the Jupiter Café, which has two great decks and throws the best post-parade party in the neighborhood. What a stellar afternoon! Caught up with several friends and made a couple of new ones, all the while pacing myself (or so I thought) vis á vis booze consumption. I drank tall gin and sodas with lots of soda, and had an occasional bottle of Heineken. The Jupiter was offering bbq’d food, so I also ate well. Hours into the party, while I certainly wasn’t sober, neither was I a mess. I was pretty much on par with our whole group.
Eventually a democratic vote took place and a bunch of us decided we’d go continue the party in the outdoor pool at LittleMiss’s and YellowBeard’s building. I had even packed a bikini and sarong for just such an eventuality. It doesn’t take much effort to get me in, on, or under water, even if there’s no life to look at except peoples’ butts. (Depantsing attempts were made, but unsuccessfully. And not by me. I wouldn’t get depressed for a whole week about pulling someone’s Speedos down – hell, I’d still be laughing about it and hoping someone had caught it on camera.)
Of course ours wasn’t the only party group down at the pool, and the ambience was festive indeed. When I’m in the sort of euphoric state I was in that evening, it doesn’t occur to me to mistrust anyone, because of course everyone is sooh awesome; everyone is just a treasure from the universe. None of these fine folks would think to steal my purse, my Panama hat, and even my cheap-ass fucking flip-flops. Why would they? These things had been set down on the grass; obviously they belonged to someone.
Thank God for small mercies, I guess, because at least the fuckers were thoughtful enough to leave my dress and underthings so I didn’t have to take the elevator to our friends’ apartment half-naked. I didn’t notice at the time that my things were missing. We kept on drinking, taking goofy pictures of each other and dancing around LM’s and YB’s living room to loud crunchy music. J-poo and I both sort of melted on the couch eventually, and since G-man couldn’t have gotten either of us to move if he’d had a crane, we stayed.
I awoke the next morning on a surprisingly comfortable mat on the living room floor, and I even managed a bit of a smile. Feeling pretty good, all things considered. When LittleMiss got up, I asked her if G-man seemed pissed at me when he left. “Oh no, it’s all good,” she assured me. I’m happy to hear that. So happy that what I want to do now is wash my face, brush my teeth, put on some lipstick and say the word “breakfast” to everyone. And where would my toothbrush and lipstick be if they were? C’mon, what does the smart money say? That’s right. Those items would be in my purse, and if my purse were in my friends’ apartment, all would have been fine. But all was not fine. No purse. And I don’t care too much about the purse – it’s just a cheap little canvas thing – but it contained house keys, an ATM card, a Visa card, a cell phone AND (this one hurts the most) brand new prescription glasses that made both the world and my face just a tiny bit prettier.
After a thorough search of the apartment, Yellowbeard and I high-tailed it to the pool area and scoured every square inch of the surrounding garden. No purse. No flip-flops. No Panama hat – however, the multi-coloured bandana that was wrapped around it was floating aimlessly at the bottom of the pool. YellowBeard fished it out for me and I will treasure it always. It probably cost about 5 pesos.
Naturally we proceeded to make all the necessary phone calls like building management and the Jupiter, but to no avail. Yesterday I filed a police report online in the hopes that someone had turned my purse in, but I’m not too optimistic.
I want to be clear at this point that my depression has not been about the stuff. I mean, stuff is stuff, and stuff like glasses is essential stuff, and it all costs money, and we’re (like most people) forever balancing financial issues. Okay, I guess it is partly about the stuff. In my darker moments I’ve referred to myself as a “waste of space”, but this week I’ve come to realize that’s not fair, because I’m so much more than that. I’m a fucking LIABILITY. I think my lowest point came yesterday (the day before? It’s all kind of a miserable blur) when I said to G-man that I thought he’d be way better off without me. He looked at me like I’d just arrived from Neptune and said, in his own loving, inimitable way, that it was way past time for me to get a grip now and stop punishing myself. Well. You can take the girl out of the Catholic Church…
I think the crux of the matter comes down to this:
I lost control of a situation and I fucking hate that. It makes me feel powerless and stupid, and it's been happening entirely too often. I would also do well to acknowledge some absolutely-no-fun truths. Truth: I've lost a significant amount of weight since my jaw surgery, therefore I should drink less (if at all) to compensate. Truth: I take a medication (small dose, but still) that doesn't necessarily play well with booze. Truth: Drinking can be rather high-risk behavior for a depressive. (D-uh!)
Anyway, the above paragraphs were written several days ago, and I still haven’t quite clawed my way out of the pit, but at least a bit of sunshine's getting in. I’m feeling moderately better. I managed to put a hold on the Visa card before any damage could be done, and my dear friend K-Belle informed me that Visa insures lost or stolen purchases, so I should be able to replace my glasses and stop stumbling around pretending I can see without them.
Tomorrow night we’re off with the usual suspects to go see Clutch at The Commodore. I think I’ll just watch the others drink, maybe try to catch a contact buzz if I can. Tequila, anyone? ;-)
Apropos of nothing – I will get around to Playa Mafia: Part 3. Soon-ish. I hope.