I had every intention of waking up early and getting in an extra hour of work this morning, but my hand and the snooze button on my phone had other plans.

When I finally got up, I felt physically ill again. I feel completely drained all the time these days. It’s because I don’t get any sleep on the weekends, and then continue that trend through the week.

I sat on the edge of my bed this morning, my throat stinging, having trouble swallowing, and my entire body aching. What the fuck is going on? I think I said out loud, “I can’t do this anymore,” and waited a few more minutes before I finally pulled myself up and made my lunch.

After I ate a small breakfast, I sat in front of the toilet for a couple of minutes because I was sure I was going to throw up. Am I fucking pregnant? At the rate things are going in my life, that wouldn’t even surprise me.

My teeth look a bit better. I’m still not happy with the shaping of them, but I figure that I can probably go back and have things altered if I need to. I’m still really upset about everything – for the same reasons I have explained in so many other journal entries. I feel the back of the tooth cap/filler, and that’s what gets me. Sure, the “teeth” look real enough. However, every time I put my tongue to them, I am reminded of what I did to myself and the guilt and depression all come racing back.

I arrived at The Clubhouse, and was actually busy the entire day. I had a ton of stuff to work on, which fortunately distracted me from the bug-infested closet I sadly call an office. I was also occasionally interrupted by Big Bird either asking me to do something, or by her swatting at flies all over the walls – even right behind my chair. It was one of those moments where you just want to lie down on the floor and collapse for a little bit. I would have, but it was covered in dead bugs, so that wasn’t really an option for me.

I made it through my workday by preparing for tonight’s bi-monthly Open House social event, which was happening at 6 p.m. I also stole a lot of food throughout the day. I’m now at the point where I feel like Robin Hood – taking muffins and giving them to the other girls who opted out of the meal plan, too. Except. for them, they never go up and take the food. That’s probably why they’re so damn skinny. I was so fucking hungry today. So fucking hungry! By the time the evening meal came out, I was stuffing garlic bread down my throat and shoving extra pieces into napkins to take to my office and eat in secrecy.

As I said, tonight was the club’s Open House event. For the first time, I was essentially in charge of everything. Initially, I thought it was a joke. Then, I remembered that Big Bird wasn’t going to be there. When Stella told me that it was my event, Big Bird corrected her by saying that it was mine and Lucy’s. Naturally, Lucy later decided that she didn’t want to go anymore. By the time the actual event started, one fucking staff member came – for five minutes. Apart from that, tonight was me alone with over 20 random members. Great. Whatever. It was also about 700 degrees in The Clubhouse today. Despite bringing in a fan to help with the heat, we were all sweating like whores in church.

In an attempt to cool and calm myself down, I started drinking. A dangerous pastime, I know. At first, it was very social – as drinking should be. I would invite a member to get a drink, we would toast, talk, separate, and I would repeat the cycle. After a few glasses of ice-filled wine, I was pretty loose.

Soon enough, 7:30 p.m. rolled around. Although the event actually finished at this time, there were still random members popping up everywhere. There was even an old man who was hitting on me the entire night. What a fucking mess. He wasn’t even cute! But, he apparently has palm trees in his backyard in British Columbia, so maybe Mom would approve of this one. When another new member appeared, I ended up talking to her about Mariah Carey for 15 minutes. This was now a disaster. Officially.

The only good thing to come from tonight’s event was that three separate members commented on my “amazing teeth.” I felt guilty for accepting their compliments.

“Oh, thanks. They’re filled with a hardened chemical substance, because I broke them when I smashed my face into a sidewalk. I’m a 26-year-old alcoholic with no self-control when it comes to anything in my life.”

I shut down Open House soon after my Mariah Carey rambling, chugged a beer, and left. I went back to my office to grab my bag and check my phone. Naturally, I had a missed call from Mom. When I rang her back to check in, even she could tell I had been drinking.

Why does this keep happening to me? This is now two nights in a row after I had my fucking teeth replaced that I have continued to drink in excess. I don’t realize it when it’s happening, and I sure as hell don’t keep track of how much I’m drinking, but the guilt is all too real.

I stuck to my exercise commitment and walked to the gym after the event, jamming to Janet Jackson and feeling tipsy along the way. By the time I got to the gym, the guilt had fully set in. What the hell was I doing? I was drunk on a fucking Wednesday night from a work event that I was in charge of. What the fuck, Kurt?

As I was lying on the floor of the gym, all I could do was think about how out of control things seem right now. Naturally, my mind raced to, “What if someone tells Robyn? Was I that drunk?” This happened all the time at The Toronto Film Group, too. As much as I want to, I just can’t seem to get it together.

I managed to complete my entire workout routine. After a sauna and shower, I was on my way home. I felt infinitely better after my workout and run as I sobered up. I’m sure I sweat out a lot of the alcohol in the gym, but walking to the subway I still felt like a mess. There’s this huge part of me that just wants to get things together so bad. It’s all I want.

I dream of a day when I don’t want to drink. I mean, I don’t want to drink right now. Well, I guess I do. I don’t know. I truly don’t know. The minute the alcohol, weed, or whatever touches my tongue, it’s game over. I can’t have just one drink. People don’t understand that. It’s never “just one drink” with me. My life is a Pringles commercial. Once I pop, the mess don’t stop. It’s completely embarrassing, too. It’s like, “Here I am at 26-years-old, and I can’t control my drinking!” How pathetic. I’ve yet to tell anyone that I have a drinking problem, but I have admitted it to myself in these journal entries almost once a week for quite some time now.

Last night, Mom sent me a text message before bed.

Mom: “You’re too hard on yourself.”

Mom was referring to my feelings about my teeth, and she was right. Sort of. I am hard on myself. I don’t think I’m too hard, though. And I think that’s because nobody is hard on me.

Nobody ever lays down the law with me. Nobody ever comes down on me for my lack of a career, lack of ambition, my clear problem with drugs and alcohol, my horrible eating habits, my body weight, my mood swings – all of it. Nobody ever says anything. As such, I feel as though I have to constantly remind myself that the way I live my life is not only abnormal, but completely unacceptable.

That’s not to put the blame on others for my issues, though. As if, because they’re not confronting me on it, I don’t know it’s a problem. Oh, I fucking know it’s all a problem. I’m well aware. I talk about that runaway train, breaks broken and out of control – well, I’m the one who’s driving the damn thing. I’m the one who keeps fueling the engine.

I am an infinitely better person when I am sober. I am feel happier, I feel lighter, I eat better, I have more energy, I’m rested, my skin is better, and I lose weight because of all of the above. In theory, it’s completely perfect. However, I can never get to that point.

Perhaps I’m romanticizing my sobriety a bit, too. When I was clean for those few months back in Winter 2013/14, I was extremely unhealthy. I may have been sober, but I was throwing up Christmas dinners because of an eating disorder, and had completely shut down socially in order to avoid any situations where drugs or alcohol might have been involved. I can’t seem to find a middle ground. That’s what I’m searching for now. It’s not realistic for me to shut down cold turkey again. Or maybe it is, and that’s part of my addiction talking.

I never use to think I had a problem with drinking. However, when you’re blacking out almost every time you drink, there’s definitely a fucking issue. I blacked out at my goddamn cousin’s wedding. I lost my teeth last weekend. I’ve woken up in a fucking Florida hospital.

I keep asking myself, “When am I going to get it?” but the problem is that I do get it. I know I have a problem. Sober, I will admit to that without hesitation. But one, two, then naturally six drinks in, I magically don’t have a problem.

“I’m fine! I’m just having fun!”

Then, I wake up with peanut butter smeared on my bedsheets and a bottle of Xanax spilled on the floor. Uh? Houston, we most definitely have a problem.

I know it all seems like these journal entries are nothing but one huge vent. I guess when I look back and read them, or if somebody else ever reads them, I want it to be clear that I am very aware of myself and my actions. I’m also extremely unhappy in so many areas of my life, and I think that drinking is a way for me to cover that up. To make things better.

I feel better when I’m drinking. I do. I feel happier, I think I’m funnier, more exciting, more energetic – I’m the life of the party. But, then I take it too far. When I don’t take it to the point of 2007 Britney Spears, I’m alright. I don’t feel great afterwards, but at least I remember what happened. It’s only during the sobering up process that I begin to feel that extreme sense of remorse.

I don’t know what it’s going to take for me to change my ways. Perhaps if I continue to talk about it – to myself at first, and then to someone else when I am ready – I can begin that process. Losing my teeth was a big wake-up call. At the same time, it was also a major setback. I feel so low right now. Things will get better, though. They will. They have to.

I got back to the Witch Cave, shoved some pita bread down my gullet, washed up, and crawled into bed. I have a date with that Jewish Ghost of Grindr’s Past tomorrow. I told him that I would only go out with him if he let me call him “Mister Sheffield” the whole time. He agreed, so I accepted his offer for – you guessed it – drinks. I will keep it cute, though.

When it comes to my drinking, Dan says that I am okay.

“What you really need to do is keep a close eye on your consumption,” he insists.

So, that’s what I’m going to start doing. Really watch how much I am drinking, instead of constantly free pouring or cracking open one beer after another. I also need to remember my party trick of chugging water between drinks. I just see all of that as me being such a buzzkill. A big fat bummer. Still, I’d rather take that “bummer” any day or night over another morning of waking up to blood-soaked linens and shattered teeth.

I was offered an interview for an Administrative Assistant position at a local photography studio today. I accepted the offer. After more thought, I think I’m going to cancel the interview. Mom says that I should stick with what I have, instead of bouncing around to another place. It’s not going to make me any happier. At this point, my current “title” – the one I can’t even seem to remember at times – looks better on a resume than “Administrative Assistant.” Even I’m not that basic.

Alright. It’s 1:15 a.m., and time for bed.

I love my family with all my heart. I am grateful for every opportunity and fortune that I have been blessed with in my life. I want to show more appreciation and respect, not only for my family and blessings, but for myself. I can do it. I know I can.

Goodnight xo