The Bittersweet Reality

   You know how people sometimes tend to choose their food based on price? Not me. No. Even though I look at the numbers, I look at those little ones which are usually placed under the name of the food. Yep. The allergens. Do I do it voluntarily? I would rather let Satan drag me down the hell hole. All I'm trying to do here is not to die. And why am I trying so much to hold onto life I don't entirely desire? I am way too stubborn to quit. But who knows? Maybe one day I will make a decision to join The 27 club. I hope they will have better food options because it is always that same fucking chicken. I am sick of a chicken.

    As I was flipping through the menu, perfectly annoyed, may I add, I saw the waiter successfully closing the distance between the two of us. Dangerously quickly. I started panicking a little bit, for I still hadn't noticed any meal that would catch my eye. I just wanted to have a nice dinner with, myself, me, and Cassandra. Cassandra was a genuinely lovely girl whom I met 23 years ago. You could say we were like sisters, like conjoined twins. One body, one soul. Almost like we were one person. But even family can get irritating sometimes. Sometimes you just need a time out.

    “Ma’am, did you choose?”

    No.

    “Yes. I will only have a glass of Sangiovese Rosé for now. Thank you.”

    I hate wine. It makes me sick to my stomach. The staff might find a little unwanted surprise in a bathroom. But the way I pronounced the name of the wine, I probably ordered something nobody has ever invented yet. One point for Cassandra.

    “Of course.” And with that dry reply, the waiter disappeared. And with him, my dignity left, too. He's totally going to think I am one of those desperate drunk women who can't go without a drink for a day or two. At least I could’ve ordered a Cosmopolitan or something with vodka in it. Just to give the man a real reason for his unconfirmed, untruthful presumptions. At least he pretended he perfectly understood my gibberish. One point for the waiter boy.

    After a while passed, the waiter was back with my pathetic order. He put the glass filled with disgusting liquid down, right in front of me, with a smile decorating his face, and left. I quietly thanked him and started planning the future for the repulsing Rosé. I could play it as an accident. Pay the bill for the drink and the cleaning, and degradingly leave. I could drown my sorrow in the sweetly repellant drink. And then drown in my stomach content. There was no plant near me, so there was no spilling happening either. Or I could just leave it there, pay the bill and go home, but this option seemed simply rude.

    I sat there for another half an hour kindly dodging the waiter's questions, utterly embarrassed. What am I doing here? The need of having a nice, relaxed evening changed into the terror of leaving. Because I once, and that moment will come, will have to leave the restaurant, but I can't with so many ignoring people looking at me.

    I can already feel the humiliation. People can't just go into the restaurants, order a pathetic glass of wine (I guess it's better than chugging down the whole bottle by yourself in the presence of the other guests) and then just leave. Because proper, decent people drink up an entire bottle in the secrecy and safety of their apartment. No witnesses, no shame. Well…Cassandra would know. But Cassandra wouldn't tell. For it would be as humiliating for her as it would be for me. She would keep her mouth shut.

    My chest felt heavy. But my posture remained untouched. Untouched by the panic that has decided to start eating me alive. Piece by piece. My head was a mess, my chest chose to become an unsuccessful heavy lifter, but my exterior stayed cool. At least for other people. I, personally, was drowning. And let's be honest, I have always been quite a terrible swimmer. Literally and figuratively speaking.

    Cassandra, sweetheart, you need to go home.

    Great. This is exactly what I was lacking in this whole night of a nightmare. My inner voice bullying me. But, in like a sweet way.

    You need to go cry into your pillow or bathroom and then casually blame it on the cats you don't own.

    Forget what I said about that she-devil. She is as sweet as sour candy, deserving of the pits of hell. That mocking tone will probably, most definitely, drive me crazy one day. The comical irony of this all is one fact which is that I cannot destroy her without destroying myself. Well… still going to consider it.

    What are you going to do? Cry ourselves to dehydration?

    I guess that's enough of this madness. I decided to make a bold move. I made eye contact with a waiter, hoping he would understand the message. The message being him coming over to me and taking my order, a proper order, after an hour or so.

    And what do you expect for your bravery? A medal for heroism?

    I would settle with you finally falling silent, but yeah, the medal would do. For 5 – 5.30 minutes, at best.

    Message received. The waiter approached me and I, full-on dread mode, ordered ribs. And another glass of that fancy-sounding wine.

    I still hate wine. Still makes me sick to my stomach. But now it won't be empty, at least.

    After a couple of minutes, and then another bunch of minutes I received my ribs with everything that belongs to it. Oh Lord, the sight was already divine I cannot even imagine the taste. Why didn't I order it sooner?

    Stupidity?

    Idiocy?

    Lack of common sense?

    Shut up already?

    If I wasn't surrounded by other customers and restaurant workers, I would without doubt and shame start moaning. But I kept my exterior composed. Presentable. But the ribs were giving me a hard time. They were so soft, incredibly delicious and the marinade they were covered in…umm so flavorsome. Such succulent meat.

    I was sipping my wine in between the bites so it wouldn’t end up spilled in the sink or somebody's stomach.

    My plate was almost empty, which couldn't be said about my stomach. I felt like exploding was the only option left for me. But even though I was stuffed with the meat and French fries and salad and wine, and God knows what else, paradoxically, the plate looked exactly how I felt. Empty. How could a person feel full and empty at the same time?

    You, out of all people, should know that best.

    And how could one person love herself but at the same time be so mean?

    How many contrasts and opposites could one person manage? Handle? Survive?

    My Nirvana state vanished the same way it appeared. Fast and without warning. I tried to cling to it for a little bit longer. Pointlessly. It was already floating somewhere above Nepal.

    I started observing my surroundings, which was probably a big, torturing mistake. My eyes fell on many happy, cheerful faces. Gentlemen having an intimate dinner with their ladies. Parents having a joyful time with their closest ones. A bitter feeling spilled all over my chest. Perhaps tonight’s dinner wasn't such a great idea as I once thought. In my mind, this whole thing looked less pathetic and more enviable. I guess I was living too much in my head. Again. But isn't it sometimes just so much nicer up in there?

    A total paradise, indeed.

    Ruining everything, as usual, I see.

    I waved at the waiter (hoping it didn't come out as snobbish behavior), paid for my order, complimented the food (but not the wine), and left.

    As I was walking down the street, I tried to tame the thinking beast that was ruining my ease.

    I decided to analyze my all-white outfit. I was very satisfied with the dress, a wide cinch belt, “an almost” coat, and shoes. I felt nice.

    Yeah, you are so nice, you spent the whole Friday night alone. Once again. You go girl.

    Is there a book on how to kill your inner voice? I would very much need it. Thank you. And if there was a chapter about awfully cruel methods, I am even more in.

    I fished out the keys from my purse, even though I still had a few minutes left before I reached my apartment. I always do this. No specific reason.

    I forgot my earphones, which did not help my mental stability and peace. Is it not weird that blasting music that destroys your eardrums is bringing people peace? Tibetan monks have nothing on Halestorm. Or Slipknot. Or In This Moment. Or The Pretty Reckless. Or…

    We get it. Your wish is to die deaf.

    Oh, how I wish I wouldn't be able to hear you. The funny thing is, even if I became deaf, I would still be able to listen to your mean talk. To your terrible, atrocious, unbearable, horrendous spiteful chatter.

    No, my terrible, atrocious, unbearable, horrendous, spiteful chatter.

    Bravo!

    I unlocked the front door and let the warmth of the room hug me. I summoned the elevator that eventually took me to the top floor and let myself into my cozy apartment. As I closed the door behind me, I let the darkness consume me. I just stood there and let the tentacles of the darkness catch me into their grasp hoping they would never let me go. Something is soothing about the night and the blackness of it. I could bask in it. Taking deep breaths in and out. Like a never-ending mantra, which needed to be repeated, otherwise, there would be serious, deadly consequences.

    The heaviness of anxiety and loneliness was still present, so I went to the bathroom and decided to draw a bath for myself. I slowly peeled the clothes off my body to the sound of running water. I added a eucalyptus bath foam to ease my nerves a little.

    When the last thing on my body was nice underwear, I bought myself just to feel better, I took that off too but averted my eyes from the mirror. Today wasn't the day when I would like to “admire” the non-existent curves of my body. Not today, Satan, not today.

    I put my hair into a high bun, turned off the light, and got into a bath, praying I wouldn't end up with a bloody wound decorating my head or, even worse, paralyzed. After a minute, my eyes adjusted to the dark. The eucalyptus scent filled my nose, and it seemed like all my struggles had disappeared. But it was all just a painful illusion. An illusion that I let take over all too often. And every time I had to come back, every time it hurt a little bit more and more. As if a piece of me was torn out and stayed living its best life in this fantasy, while I had to come back in shreds and defeated. Beaten. Conquered. No…overwhelmed.

    I laid my head under the water to drown out the screaming silence and lethal thoughts.

    The only thing left was hope. But in all honesty, hope is overrated anyway.