I regret how perfectly reasonable and sensible my meltdown was. I regret not being a bigger mess when I had a perfectly good reason. I think this is why I am weirdly attracted to stories with a very damaged and dark main character. You know; broken women who drink too much, can’t keep a job, blow guys they just met. Ew. Russian Doll on Netflix and my new crush Phoebe Waller-Bridge on Amazon’s Fleabag for example. Curious.
Oh the allure of the hot, hot mess. Perhaps mine wasn’t really a breakdown? I was sad, angry and confused but maybe I was emotionally mature enough to express it? I certainly wasn’t mature in any other way. Or, am I so buttoned down that I couldn’t even crack up properly? Maybe I’m a zombie like the ones in Warm Bodies?
In what I thought at the time were brief moments of clarity, I knew that I was a mess, and I knew that I needed help, so I got help. How perfectly sensible of me. I thought I’d hit rock bottom then but now I’m not so sure. I think I could have done better, gone deeper. I was never recruited by a cult. I don’t even think I did a proper walk of shame. I drank too much, sure, but still kept my job. In fact I got promotions and bonuses. I was coherent at all times. I used drugs but nobody noticed as far as I know. Oh, my flat mate noticed but moved out because I was too ‘much.’ Way to be supportive, Naomi. There were guys but it wasn’t on if it wasn’t on, if you know what I mean. I was so sensible.
If I could go back I’d make a real run at it. I’d be a hot mess. Oh, the stories I’d be able to tell if I could remember them.