I woke up around 8 a.m., with Dan spooning my ass. To be fair, I was in a prime spooning position. I had situated myself on my left side at the edge of the bed so that I could look down at my computer whenever I opened my eyes. I tried to keep them shut as much as I could, though. It was my only way of escaping the impending reality I was about to face.

Eventually, I sat up in bed. I pulled my laptop off the floor, and began working on a solution to the Fire Island catastrophe. Getting a response from a group of 20-something-year-old gay guys at 8 a.m. on a Sunday was pretty much a lost cause, but I did my best.

I had received another message from Laura, the woman at The Stonewall Foundation who had organized yesterday’s house party. Laura had sent an email last night following my plea for help, and said that she would have someone check on my stuff in the morning. According to Laura’s second message, there were indeed a number of forgotten items packed up from the party and taken to a volunteer’s house, but we still had to wait for them to reach out. Laura said there was hope.

I couldn’t help but feel sick. I felt completely hopeless, but had to continue working through my options. At this point, I was waiting on someone to tell me if my bag was even at the volunteer’s house. But, what if it wasn’t? Was I still going to make the trip back to Fire Island?

What kept making my stomach churn up an anxious batch of gut-busting diarrhea was the idea that I was going to have to return to Fire Island regardless of what answer I received. If Stonewall found the stuff, I had to go get it. That would be ideal. If they didn’t, I couldn’t accept that answer. No way.

One of the many problems with this entire situation was that I had to wait around until I heard back from someone on my laptop. As such, I couldn’t leave the hotel room. I would’ve had no way to reach anyone. I had to gather as much information as I could before I made my inevitable journey north to Fire Island. I was now playing a waiting game with the Stonewall people, and I knew it would be a few hours before I heard from any of yesterday’s boys. I was beginning to shake. At one point, I couldn’t feel my right leg.

My next step, which I had also been doing all this time, was to call my phone again via Skype. The thing would ring endlessly until it went to voicemail. This was a good sign. It meant my phone was on. If only I had data, I could track it. Surely, the phone was in my bag. Even if it wasn’t, they might be within close proximity of one another. And even if that wasn’t the case, the phone was the most important possession of everything I had left behind.

Let’s make one thing clear, though. This wasn’t about my phone. Yeah, it would suck to be looking at getting a seventh iPhone in three years, but phones can be replaced. However, the journal entries and photos on the phone could not. I needed my baby.

Then, it hit me. A completely brilliant plan! If I could get data on my phone, I could track it.

I got in touch with Rogers Wireless. Over the next hour, I exchanged messages with a woman named Claudette through an online chat system. I explained my situation in full detail, and it took this fucking Montreal-based cunt 54 minutes to tell me that she was going to send a link to my phone. I’m sorry, pardon me? Oops. I mean, pardonne moi?

Once I explained my situation yet again, Claudette said there was no way for her to remotely add a data plan to my phone. By the time I had finally come to a partial solution with this woman – adding a $40 data plan – my phone was now dead. The Skype calls were going straight to voicemail. It was 8:40 a.m.

Likely due in part to my furious typing while messaging Claudette the Cunt, Dan was now beginning to wake up. I was ready to snap my laptop in half because of this French bitch, but I didn’t need to be in a worse situation than I already was.

If I had any chance of surviving the day, I needed sleep. I was going to be embarking on a minimum four-hour round-trip journey to Fire Island, in addition to the upcoming all-nighter leading up to my 6 a.m. flight out of Newark tomorrow morning. I was screwed, to say the least.

I put my laptop back on the ground, and tried to close my eyes. I was still shaking from the anxiety. If there were ever a moment for Xanax, this was it. I got out of bed, grabbed my pill bottle, snapped a Xanax in half so it would hit me as fast as possible, and climbed back into bed.

Just before I fell asleep, I felt myself up. Not because I was horny, but because:

1. I wanted to make sure I had all of my limbs and teeth.

2. I didn’t know what I was wearing.

As it turned out, everything was intact. No cuts, bruises, or missing body parts. Much to my surprise, I had also been sleeping in a Speedo and my new Robin Byrd shirt.

“Who the fuck is Robin Byrd?” I thought to myself.

The last thing I did before I fell asleep was pray. A cliché moment, I know. I needed a miracle, though. I had to get my bag back. I fell asleep as Dan rubbed my back.

No more than an hour had passed before I woke up again. Dan had come back from the other boys’ room wearing a bathrobe. The lights came on, the curtains were drawn, and Evan was moaning in agony from being woken up, which meant it was time for me to get back to my search.

I didn’t have any new information from the Stonewall people, but I had received some texts from Kevin and his friends. With every new message, I began to remember a bit more of my night. Only a couple of the guys were responding, which was slightly concerning given that this was a group text containing about ten numbers, but I was taking note of every piece of information that was coming in.

I began messaging Cooper separately. He reminded me that we were sitting on a bench at the marina while waiting for the ferry. Perhaps my things could be there? Cooper also mentioned us going to a second house party, which I had a vague recollection of. Before Cooper said anything about the second party, I had an image of another location in my head. I wasn’t sure if I had just made it up, though. I guess I didn’t. How was I that fucked up? Oh, right. The drinks on the train, gin and water on the beach, an open vodka bar at the Stonewall party, and a big fat cup of ecstasy.

I returned to the group chat.

Kurt: “Does anyone remember me going to the second house party?”

Sterling: “Yes. Vodka. No mixers.”

Kurt: “Oh, no. Do you remember where it was? And any chance you remember me having my bag?”

Sterling: “The house is called Niagara Falls. Has a big waterfall. And a tower.”

David: “Kurt, we also went to a house about two doors down from it, closer to the ferry. I have no idea of the address, though.”

Now, a third house had been thrown into the mix? This was getting messy.

Kevin was not around for any of this house hopping, by the way. One of the many problems that occur when I drink is that I somehow manage to make new friends very easily. These people clearly don’t know what they’re getting themselves into when they invite me to run away with them. Although, given the mixed information I was receiving from everyone, it seemed like I wasn’t the only one who was fucked up.

Unfortunately, Cooper couldn’t remember if I had my things on me when he saw me. I was still in need of more information. Not to mention, I had no idea where “Niagara Falls” was. All that came up in my Google searches were news stories about arson near Niagara Falls, New York. Goddamn it.

Amidst my plea for help, Trent Jackson “left the group” without having contributed a word. Listen. I understand not being able to help, or perhaps not even wanting to help. What Trent did was fucking heartless, though. Someone you know is in need of help, and you leave them hanging without a fucking word? It made me think that a trust fund baby like Trent hasn’t truly lived his life. Fine. Maybe you’ve never overdosed at an open vodka bar, or sipped on a stranger’s ecstasy cocktail. To each their own. But, you’ve never been in a jam and needed some help? People I had met 24 hours ago were helping me more than this guy from my hometown – who I had fucking met multiple times before. Trent’s exit really showed his true character. I don’t think I could ever do that to someone. We’ve all been there. If you haven’t, it just means your time is coming. You best hope that someone is going to be there for you in your hour of need.

As we approached noon, I still hadn’t gathered enough information. Guys from the group chat weren’t responding, so I didn’t know where the extra houses were. Nobody from Stonewall had gotten back to me, my phone was obviously still dead, and with every passing minute I needed to get the hell out of the hotel room. I was completely stuck.

One by one, Dan, Connor, and Evan would come in and out of the room and ask me if I was okay. I would just shake my head. I had nothing to say. I sat in the same spot on the bed with my computer in front of me, barely looking up at them. I was so ashamed of myself.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this low. I know that’s a strange thing to say, given the fact that I have woken up in a hospital and recently smashed my face into cement, but this was the pinnacle of everything. Especially after the tooth debacle, I promised myself that I would do better. More than anything, I wanted to get my drinking under control so that I wouldn’t be waking up like this again. Now, this had happened. Despite having looked in the mirror with blood on my face and broken teeth a mere two weeks ago, I still wasn’t getting it.

What is wrong with me?

Why can’t I overcome this?

To make matters infinitely worse, I was going to have to tell my parents. All I want is for them to be proud of me, but how can that happen when every week there is a new problem? I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed. I’m also coming to terms with the fact that I have a major problem on my hands, which has now gotten to a point where I can’t fix it alone.

Everyone had left the hotel room to explore the city on their last day. I couldn’t go anywhere, because I had to wait on any further information before I made my way back to Fire Island.

“You should cut your losses,” Dan said before leaving the room. “It’s just a phone. It could have been much worse.”

Dan was absolutely right. It was just a phone, and things could have been worse. I mean, things have been worse. Many times. That’s why I was confused as to why this situation was hitting me so hard. I think it’s because of how soon it happened after I had promised myself – with everything inside of me – that I would never let this happen to me again. Now, I had nothing left in me to tell myself it would get better. Today was so much more than a lost phone. I had lost all of my self-respect and positivity. I felt paralyzed. At this point, I hadn’t even cried yet. I was in a pure state of shock. What the fuck was I going to do?

Sitting in front of a silent computer wasn’t moving anything along. Instead, I decided to bite the bullet. I texted Mom from my computer. Without giving all of the details, I explained to Mom that I had left my bag and phone on Fire Island. She’s not stupid. Mom was going to know right away that it was due to drinking, but I thought I would let her fill in the blanks. At least, at first.

As usual, Mom was incredibly calm about everything. After I explained the situation further, she called the hotel room. That’s when I completely broke down. It had obviously been a long time coming, but I finally confessed to having a problem that I didn’t know how to handle.

I was sobbing over the phone. I told Mom I needed help. I did. I still do. I felt completely out of control and utterly helpless, but it wasn’t because of the bag. Obviously, that’s what had sparked all of this – or at least reignited it. However, I felt helpless because I was clearly unable to fix this huge problem in my life, despite promising myself time after time. Nothing was changing. It was finally time to ask for help.

Mom calmed me down, and we talked things through. Mom would find me some help when I got home, but in the meantime, we had to focus on what was happening right now.

“Wait for more information from the Stonewall people,” Mom said. “At the end of the day, it’s just a phone. And it was a shitty one, too. It can be replaced. Enjoy the last day of your trip, and stay positive that something will come through.”

Just then, I received an email from Stonewall. A Topman shirt had been found by one of the volunteers. That was my shirt! Unfortunately, in that same email they said that no bag had been found. Laura offered her apologies, and that was it. I’d finally received my answer. I was going to Fire Island. At the very least, I would get my shirt back.

While in the bathroom getting ready to shower, I looked in the mirror and was reminded of what I had been wearing this whole time. A white t-shirt I bought at the Fire Island marina gift shop, featuring a naked cartoon woman and a Sharpie autograph.

“Who the fuck is Robin Byrd?” I asked my reflection.

I decided to put my detective skills back to work. After a quick Google search, the first image that popped up resembled Britney Spears during her 2007 meltdown. That is, if said meltdown had happened when Britney was in her mid-fifties. Then, I saw the Wikipedia caption.

“Robin Byrd is an American former pornographic actress and the host of The Robin Byrd Show, which has appeared on Leased access cable television in New York City since 1977.”

At this point, I needed some humor. The fact that I had just spent the last 12+ hours in nothing but my bathing suit and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon drawing of a retired porn star made me laugh. How fitting. Literally. The t-shirt fit me really well.

After a much-needed shower, I received some more messages from Kevin’s friend, David. Somehow, David had managed to locate the houses we went to after the Stonewall party, and sent me screenshots of their satellite locations.

Oh, yeah. I said “houses.” There were now three confirmed locations in total, only one of which I fully remembered going to. I had the address for the Stonewall party all along, but now I had two screenshots of other the houses – including one of “Niagara Falls” and another of the house we visited for 30 minutes.

This was huge. This was fucking huge news! David saved me. Thank you, David! Now, I wouldn’t just be wandering around Fire Island asking, “Do you know where Niagara Falls is?”

Using a coaster I’d found in the hotel room, I wrote down the three locations:

• The address of the Stonewall house

• The two intersections of the other mystery houses

Fire Island doesn’t have actual streets, so the “intersections” were really just a combination of dirt roads and wooden paths. I finally had what I needed. It was as much information as I ever thought I’d get.

With my suitcase fully packed, I grabbed Connor’s bag of Chex cereal out of the garbage can, dropped off my bag at the hotel’s front desk, and began my journey. Armed with my laptop, Anne Frank diary, and a cross-body pouch, I made my way to the subway. I had used up all of the money on my MetroCard and was in no mood to swipe my credit card again, so I successfully convinced the lady behind the glass to let me through for free. Not surprisingly, I’ve had a lot of practice with getting on public transit for free.

Two subway trains later, I arrived at Penn Station. Following a quick plea for help at the Information Desk, I was on a train by 2:12 p.m. I took a seat by the window, pulled out my cereal, and started chowing down. At this point, I hadn’t had a full meal since Friday’s brunch. I felt sick, but I knew I had to eat something – even if it was dry cereal coated with honey. Fuck. I tried to close my eyes, but the goddamn Scotsmen beside me wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

After 20 minutes, I transferred to the second train. In about an hour, I would reach Sayville – the closest mainland point to Fire Island. I sat in a single seat next to the bathroom, which was a horrible idea. For whatever reason, people seem to treat public transportation as the release point for their entire bowel system. On a packed train with nowhere else to sit, I was fortunate enough to experience all of the associated sounds and smells.

While on the train, I made friends with an older lady sitting across from me. I told her my story. Actually, I was telling everyone my story. I don’t know why. Who knows? Maybe they would have some advice to give. This lady didn’t, but encouraged me and wished me luck. Maybe that’s why I was doing it. I needed all the luck and well wishes I could get. I fell asleep, and woke up as we neared Sayville.

The next transfer was to a short bus, which was driven by a lady who looked like an extra from Joe Dirt. Or, maybe from my hometown of Newmarket, Ontario. Either way, she had a mullet. How fitting of me to be riding a short bus driven by a King of the Hill character. I called the woman Peggy.

As Peggy drove me to the ferry terminal, I told her my story. Peggy said that she hadn’t found anything, but gave me a number to call. I added it to my coaster. It’s quite difficult asking for help when you can’t give any information. I don’t remember anything about my night. When Peggy asked for details, I didn’t have much to offer her.

It was now 4 p.m. The next ferry was set to leave at 4:20 p.m. Again, how fitting. I asked the ticket booth, café bartender, and office manager if they had seen my bag. Nothing. The office manager was nice enough to make some calls for me, but we didn’t find anything.

I felt so pathetic. I had zero energy left in me, but I had to keep going. I was so close to Fire Island. If I had any chance of finding my bag, it would be there. I was also nervous, though. Fire Island was my last shot. If I couldn’t find anything, there would be no more hope.

The ferry pulled out of the dock, and made its way to the island. Earlier, I had asked the sailors – or whatever ferrymen are called – what the departure schedule was. Apparently, there was one boat every hour. That meant, if I wanted to get back to Manhattan as soon as possible, I had one hour to search for my things. The lady in the manager’s office had told me to check the marina office as well, so I now had four stops to make. I could do this.

Now, I’m no Olympian by any means. However, when I got off the ferry, the power walk I executed was worthy of a gold medal. I had no idea where I was going, so I don’t know why I was walking so fast, but I knew that the Stonewall house was seven properties in from the marina, along the west side of the island. There was no time to waste.

After a few turns, I found the house. I knocked, but there was no answer. Fire Island homes are typically set up with a wooden fence and door structure surrounding the property. Once you pass through the gate, there is usually a pool located in front of the house.

I knocked again. There was still no answer, so I reached over the fence and pulled up the lock. I walked through the familiar Japanese garden path and made my way to the pool. Despite the lack of Speedo-clad gays, Dottie, a vodka bar, a Cher drag queen, and Shamu, this place looked totally familiar.

I walked around the property to the back of the house. All of the doors and windows were open, but nobody was home.

“Hello?” I shouted.

Nothing. You could hear a pin drop. It was eerie.

I knew exactly where I had stashed my bag, so after an unfruitful search I decided it was best to move on. With nothing but the sights and sounds of curtains blowing through open doors and windows, the scene had the makings of a horror movie. With my luck, there was a killer on the loose and I was his next victim. Time to go.

The next location on my scavenger hunt was the “30-Minute House” – the one we apparently visited for a hot second before migrating to Niagara Falls. I had the image of the satellite picture burned into my brain, but couldn’t find the intersection I was looking for. Finally, I asked an older couple where the street was and they pointed me in the right direction.

I found the house. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Louder.

“Is anyone home?” I yelled above the fence.

I heard footsteps. A small, Hobbit-looking gay opened the gate. I thought I was tired, but this guy looked like he hadn’t slept in about a week. The guy also looked like Sam from The Lord of The Rings, so that’s what I decided to call him.

After I explained my situation to Sam, he led me past the door. As if I had a That’s So Raven vision, I instantly remembered the house. There was a decrepit hot tub that looked like it had seen one too many STDs in its life, and I vaguely remembered swimming in the small, square-shaped pool.

“There were some things left behind yesterday,” Sam said. “But, I don’t think we have any bags.”

We searched everywhere outside the house. Nothing. The place looked like a fucking graveyard. Either that, or what I would assume to be the insides of everyone who parties on Fire Island. Grey, dried up, crumpled, and filled with used condoms and semen.

Sam brought me inside the house, and introduced me to the eight other gays scattered throughout the small space. While looking at the food scattered everywhere, I was surprised to learn that some gays on Fire Island do actually eat. And not only do they eat, but they eat mozzarella sticks. They may be gay, but they’re still American.

The four shirtless guys sitting at a high-top table weren’t too fazed by my entrance.

“I remember you,” one of them said. “You came here with your friends, but left after realized you were at the wrong house.”

I figured the best thing to do would be to remain honest about my situation.

“I was really fucked up yesterday,” I said. “Apparently, I came here with some friends and lost a bag with all of my stuff in it, including my phone.”

I also made sure to mention that I was Canadian. People fucking love it when you say you are Canadian. I don’t know if it’s an endearing thing, or if they automatically feel sorry for you. Either way, being Canadian always makes a bad situation even the slightest bit better.

Moved by my story, one of the guys took me under his wing and helped me search the house. He looked like a hotter, gayer, and more naked version of Carlos from The Magic School Bus, so that’s what I decided to call him.

I didn’t know if Carlos was trying to comfort me or hit on me, but he kept rubbing my back as we looked for my bag. While it did make me feel a bit better, it was also slightly disturbing. That being said, at this point I would have probably slept with Carlos for some Wi-Fi. We searched every room in the house, except for one bedroom that we couldn’t go in because there were two guys fucking in it.

I decided that it was time to move on. Carlos said I could come back if I didn’t find anything, and perhaps use some Wi-Fi to figure out my next move. He was so kind, even offering me something to eat. None of the guys knew where Niagara Falls was, but Carlos gave me a map of the island to help me find it. Carlos also took down my name, number, and email in case he found anything.

I felt like I had just encountered Glinda the Good Witch. One thing that really took me by surprise during this entire journey was the kindness and generosity of people. Trent Jackson may be the scum of the earth, but so many strangers had come to my rescue and helped me out of the kindness in their hearts. It meant so much to me. Mom, the subway lady, Kevin and his friends, all of the transit people, and now Carlos.

This guy had no idea who I was, where I came from, or what I did. It didn’t matter. Carlos knew I was in trouble, and he wanted to help me. Not many people surprise me, but the characters on today’s journey sure did.

Perhaps today was like my own version of The Wizard of Oz. Or maybe The Wizard of FIP: The Fire Island Pines Story. Does that make me Dorothy? Somewhere over the rainbow was my Marc Jacobs bag, and I was going to find it. Just follow the dusty dirt road!

The citizens of Munchkinland all wished me luck, waving goodbye as I left the 30-Minute House and set off to find Niagara Falls. According to my coaster, Niagara Falls was on the same road as the 30-Minute House. I walked up and down the street, but couldn’t see over the fences to find the place. Not even my new map could help me.

I noticed another couple walking towards me on the dirt road.

“Do you know where Niagara Falls is?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’ve heard of it,” they responded.

Only on Fire Island can you ask someone, “Do you know where Niagara Falls is?” and have them give you a completely serious answer.

“It’s close,” one of them said, pointing behind me. “Just down the road. It’s the house with the lookout tower.”

The tower! Of course! I remembered Sterling mentioning something about a lookout tower at one of the houses. With this small piece of information, I now knew exactly where Niagara Falls was.

After thanking the couple for their help, I hustled to the house and knocked on the fence. No answer. I yelled out as I knocked again, but nobody came to the door. Reaching over the gate, I turned the door handle and let myself in.

Walking into Niagara Falls’ courtyard was like something out of the fucking Twilight Zone. To my right was a long skinny pool, just like in the Google Maps photo. Behind the pool was a massive wooden house, featuring the lookout tower and a long staircase running up the entire side of the building. But, that’s not all.

Scattered throughout the pool area and plastered all over the house, staircase, and fences were about 100+ cutouts of Britney Spears’s head from various album eras. It was so fucking weird, yet somehow managed to fit in perfect with today’s events. I mean, what the literal fuck? Where was I? What was Niagara Falls!

Nobody was around, so I decided to walk to the back of the house. Something told me – probably my subconscious – that if I was going to find anything, it was going to be on the back deck. Following the faint cackle of what could only be a group of sassy gay men, I made my way to the backyard. As I turned the corner, I saw a gaggle of about ten or more shirtless guys sitting around a table, drinking, smoking, and listening to Britney Spears’s new album, Glory.

As one would expect, the entire group went silent mid-conversation as I appeared from the side of the house. All at once, the guys turned their heads towards me. Holding a map and coaster in my hand, they must have known I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Just like at the house before, I told the strangers my story. Completely drained and feeling utterly pathetic, I gave them the spiel.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping you can help me. Apparently, I was here yesterday with some friends and I got really fucked up. I lost my bag with all of my stuff in it.”

As I was reciting my sob story, I glanced to my right. Sitting in the corner of the patio was a black bag. I was about 99% sure it was mine. My heart was pounding.

I had barely even finished my last sentence when one of the smaller gays popped out of his seat.

“A black Marc Jacobs bag?” he asked.

I almost screamed. Well, I sort of did.

“YES!” I shouted, not unlike a mother who had just found her lost child at Disneyland.

I could not fucking believe what was happening. I had just made this huge journey with nothing on me but a coaster and chicken scratch directions, yet somehow, I ended up finding my bag at Niagara Falls. I felt like the luckiest person in the world.

I ran over to my bag in the corner. After digging through it in a panic, I found my little baby phone lying dead at the bottom. Struggling to find the words to explain my situation to all of the shirtless gays who were still staring at me, I pulled out my phone and held it above my head in a moment of silence. Everyone let out a gasp, then began to cheer. Kathy Griffin was right – the gay gasp is real!

I almost started crying. This was a miracle, in every sense of the word. I mean, what are the odds that this could happen? I felt like Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston singing “When You Believe,” and just wanted to belt out, “THERE CAN BE MIRACLES, WHEN YOU BELIEVE!”

I explained my full story to the boys. Nobody could believe what I had been through, including myself. After sitting down for a couple of minutes, I thanked everyone for their help and began to gather my things.

“You should stay,” said one of the guys at the table. “Did you want to charge your phone?”

“Or, maybe you want a shot?” another guy chimed in, dangling a bottle of vodka in his hand.

The mention of alcohol almost made me sick, but I took them up on the charging offer. I brought my phone inside the house, plugged it in, and the thing turned on almost instantly. All of my messages were coming through, along with a huge wave of relief that was washing over me. I mean, seriously. What the fuck? How? This was unbelievable. I was completely dumbfounded.

I was also beginning to sweat. I changed into the shorts that I found in my bag, and returned to the deck. I sat and talked with the guys for a while, joining in on their conversation as if nothing had happened. They were all huge Britney Spears fans – no shit, Sherlock – and they had been listening to her entire discography all weekend to celebrate the new album. Well, at least we had a common bond.

We talked about Britney for a while. I went through my bag and showed them everything that was in it, and we all had a good laugh. Eventually, I decided it was time to go. I grabbed my phone from inside the house, thanked everyone, and then ripped out a piece of paper from my diary and wrote down all of my information in case they wanted to get in touch after. I also pulled out my disposable camera and took a picture so that I would never forget the moment. Not that I see myself forgetting this story any time soon, but still. The guys also took a picture of me with the camera, so it’ll be interesting to see how that hot mess turns out.

The same small gay from earlier needed to catch the ferry as well. His name was Chris, and we walked back to the marina together. Chris was laughing at everything I said, which is my favorite quality in a person. I was happy to have company for my trip home.

“I can’t believe I actually found Niagara Falls,” I admitted to Chris as we made our way down the dirt road.

“Actually,” Chris answered, “It’s called Viagra Falls.”

Well, okay then. At this point, not much else was going to faze me.

While walking past the 30-Minute House, I quickly ran inside to show Carlos and his friends that I had found my bag. They cheered for me, and I ran back to Chris so we could continue our schlep to the marina.

We got in line for the ferry, which was nearing the dock. As I was giving Chris more details about my story, I realized that in the midst of all this craziness, I had completely forgotten about my shirt. I borrowed Chris’s phone so that I could send the Stonewall people an email, but knew I wasn’t going to hear back from anyone. I had Chris hold my spot in line.

As a last-ditch effort, I walked into every single shop and restaurant at the marina to ask if anything had been turned in. Nobody had my shirt. When I stumbled upon Summer Solstice, I remembered that this was the shop I had purchased my Robin Byrd shirt from. I went inside. There was an old man counting the cash register.

“Did anyone turn in a black t-shirt?” I asked.

The man raised his head, took one look at me, and chuckled to himself.

“Hey, it’s you!” he said. “The Robin Byrd guy!”

Are you kidding me?

“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. “That was a fucking hot mess. How much was that shirt anyway?”

“$45 plus tax,” the man responded.

Damn! That old man chapped my ass. Oh, well. It was all worth it in the end.

I had one last stop to make at the marina. A pizza joint, to be exact. Why I thought the Stonewall people would have dropped off my t-shirt at a pizzeria is beyond me, but I figured I had come this far and might as well check.

Walking towards the restaurant, I saw three of Logan’s friends sitting at a picnic table. Oh, hell to the motherfucking no! I did not need this shit today! I didn’t make eye contact. I raced into the shop, asked my questions, and immediately returned to Chris. I had no idea if Logan was with them, but I didn’t want to find out.

Can you imagine? I mean, I’m tempted to ask, “What are the odds?” but at this rate, I truly believed anything could happen. I felt like singing “When You Believe” again, but didn’t have the time. I got back to Chris just as the ferry was docking, and we promptly took our seats on the upper deck together. I don’t think Chris wanted any company for his ride home, but he was getting it. I told him I wouldn’t talk. I lied.

We docked at the mainland, got on the bus, then got on the train. The rain began to pour outside as we made our way back to the city. I reached into my bag and pulled out a bag of mixed nuts, which I devoured as if I hadn’t eaten in days – mainly because I hadn’t. Still in a state of shock over what happened today, I started to write in my diary.

I never want to come back to New York City. Despite having been so fortunate with all of this, I still felt lower than I had ever felt. I was lucky. I was really fucking lucky today. There’s no other way to describe it.

I thought about what I was going to do when I got back to Toronto. My heart sunk. I can’t continue living like this. I know I said I was lucky today, but a large part of me feels like that luck is running out – if it hasn’t run out already. Surely, this latest escapade used up every last life I had.

It used to be that I would wake up and remember most of my night. Over the years, the levels of memory have decreased. Now, when I wake up in the morning, I feel sick. I’ve reached a point where I am scared of dying. I get so fucked up that I literally wake up after a night out and I think to myself, “I am lucky to be alive.”

My luck is gone. Sure, things could have been worse this time. But, that’s this time. What happens next time? What happens when things are worse? I mean, I’ve now reached levels of permanent bodily harm. What comes after that?

Ironically, while sitting on a speeding train back to Manhattan, this was exactly what my life felt like. Except, my speeding train came to a huge fucking collision last night. My life is out of control. I know that I need help. I can’t get better on my own anymore. A big part of me thinks that moving home might be the best option. Perhaps that would help keep me out of trouble.

I’m at a point where I want to shut down. I don’t know how to deal with my life anymore. I’ll talk with Mom when I get home about what the future might hold in terms of moving in a positive direction. I also think that this might be the sign I’ve been looking for that is going to help me turn things around. How stupid of me to say something like that, considering one would assume losing teeth might be a big fucking flashing neon sign that screams “GET IT TOGETHER, GIRL!” But, maybe this is it. I got off lucky today. Honestly, I don’t think there will be another chance. I need help. I also need sleep and food, as I haven’t had a solid meal or slumber in approximately 48 hours.

When we reached the train transfer point, Chris and I parted ways. I thanked him for everything. This was yet another amazing encounter with such a generous person on my journey. I wasn’t just lucky in finding my bag and phone. All of my encounters today were a part of that luck. Without those people, I wouldn’t have been able to succeed as I did.

Around 8 p.m. – six hours after my journey had begun – I finally arrived back at Penn Station. After connecting to some Wi-Fi at Starbucks, I called Mom to tell her the good news. I almost broke down in tears because I was so happy. I connected with the boys, too. It turned out that three of them had their flights delayed until later in the evening, with Dan’s flight now rescheduled for tomorrow morning.

Dan was at our friend Aaron’s apartment. I arranged a potential meet up with the two of them, and made my way out of Penn Station so that I could get some dinner. I only got one store down before I stopped at Magnolia Bakery and ordered a banana pudding and blondie brownie to go. Naturally, I told the entire bakery team about my story. Happy to hear my good news, they gave me a free bottle of water and wished me luck.

Like the sewer rat I had become, I crawled out of Penn Station. It had stopped raining. Interesting. I walked to Shake Shack, gorged on a huge meal, and then went to Times Square. At 10 p.m. on a Sunday, not much was open in the city. However, given that I had lost my entire day, I wanted to do something in Manhattan before I packed it in for the night.

Why I thought that visiting one of the most crowded crossroads in the world while suffering from extreme anxiety was a good idea is beyond me. I went into the Disney Store, and then had to leave. Times Square is an awful, awful place.

Taking half a Xanax along the way, I trekked over to the hotel and picked up my suitcase. Naturally, while waiting for the bellman, I recited my story to the woman behind the front desk. I needed Wi-Fi and our room’s account had closed, so she gave me access to the employee internet.

“It’s the fastest internet in the building,” she said, handing me a bottle of water.

Bless her. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s anything slow. Oh, I suppose I could add “myself” to that list as well.

Sitting in the middle of the lobby at the Hyatt Grand Central Station, I tried to figure out my next move. I decided it would be best to skip out on going to Aaron’s so that I could get myself to the airport. I would find a bench to sleep on there. Much to my surprise, another lady at the front desk had overheard my story and offered to help. After arranging an airport shuttle bus for me, the woman handed me another bottle of water and wished me luck.

With my luggage in tow, I hopped on the empty bus. Clutching onto my phone for dear life, I stretched out on the seats and fell asleep for the 45-minute ride to Newark Airport. I woke up to an angry driver yelling at me to get off his bus, as we had arrived. I quickly gathered my things, jumped off the bus, and headed inside the airport.

It was now after midnight. All of the check-in gates were closed, so I was confined to the arrivals area. Normally, this would have been fine. However, there was a Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon playing on a jumbotron with a speaker system that rivaled that of Madison Square Garden’s. It was torture. If I ever hear Teresa Guidice’s voice again, I think I’m going to have another nervous breakdown. Or, at the very least, flip a few tables myself.

Rearranging some chairs into one long row, I attempted to get some sleep. It was no use. Not even a Xanax could help me at this point, although that didn’t stop me from taking another one. I faced the fact that I wasn’t going to get any sleep. What’s worse was that Newark Airport had shut down their Wi-Fi, so I was basically living in a third world country. I mean, I knew New Jersey had a bad reputation. I didn’t think it was that bad, though.

Finally, the time had come for me to check into my flight. Who passes by me while I’m waiting in line? Harrison Marchant. This day had officially become a fucking joke. New York, you are a fucking cunt! Today was such a slap in the face. On top of everything I had been through, now I was going to be on the same flight as this little fucker? Shit, no! Despite being in an extremely small group, I successfully avoided the Ghost of Grindr’s Past for the remainder of my journey. Good riddance!

Once inside the pre-flight lounge, I pulled a Mom and literally raided the place. I took about seven packages of shortbread cookies, drank multiple coffees and espressos, grabbed 15 tea bags for the Witch Cave, and threw six water bottles in my bag. I was thisclose to taking 20 mini coffee creamers as a thank-you gift for Mom, but decided against it. I’ll just buy her a real bottle at home. She deserves it.

I boarded the plane with ease, and settled into my pre-selected window seat at the very back of the plane. As soon as I sat down and buckled up, I leaned against the window, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. The day had ended. It was 6 a.m.

I feel like today was a big turning point for me. If not a turning point, then perhaps a sign that I need to make some serious changes to the way I am living my life. I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy for a long time. Looking back, I don’t think I have been happy since last December.

What held me over for a brief moment in time was Logan. That boy changed my entire outlook on life. Logan revived me in a way I hadn’t felt since RX. It’s crazy to say someone could do that in such a short period of time, but it’s true. Something about Logan sparked a fire inside of me. I was so happy. I wanted to be the best person I could be. Logan made me feel valued, appreciated, wanted, and more special than I had ever felt in my life.

Unfortunately, just as quickly as Logan had brought that light into my life, he pulled the rug out from under me. When Logan disappeared, everything shut down. That’s when my anxiety attacks began. Logan was a crutch for me. I relied so heavily on the way Logan made me feel that when he went away, all of the light in my life did, too. Ever since then, I’ve felt as though I’ve been in a dark hole that I don’t know how to crawl out of.

February was an absolute disaster for me. After my trip to see Logan, I realized that he was pulling away. I was such an idiot. The guy was sleeping around on me. Logan had given me a STD, but I carried on like everything was normal. My self-esteem was essentially non-existent.

The first true sign of my underlying anxiety was manifested during the Mariah Carey concert in Las Vegas, when I completely blacked out during a show that I had been waiting my entire life to see. Not only that, but I then broke down to Cousin Ashley inside a casino – crying and telling her how incredibly unhappy I was, despite having been given every opportunity to succeed.

March arrived. I thought that MOMENTS was going to be the distraction I needed. Planning an event of that size was going to be a great way to move on from all the negativity in my life. I would show everyone what I was capable of. How much I could accomplish. How much I was worth. Yet, the whole thing felt like a failure to me. I thought about committing suicide for the first few days after that MOMENTS weekend. The therapy session I went to before the party had helped set me on a good path. Once the event turned out the way it did, I lost sight of what Moira Nightingale and I had talked about in the session. I crawled back into my hole.

April came along. Things weren’t much better. The reality that Logan was gone had completely set in. I was dating Bryan solely as a way to fill the void. I was lonely. Although I have found a better way to cope with those feelings, I’m still lonely.

The entire time I was dating Bryan, I felt such an overwhelming sense of guilt. At first, I thought maybe the connection was real. Despite quickly realizing that it wasn’t, I didn’t want to end things with Bryan. I was afraid of being alone. I wanted someone around, and Bryan was that person. As our relationship developed, things got to a point where I couldn’t pretend anymore. That’s when I pulled back, officially ending things far later than I should have.

I often feel claustrophobic in my apartment. I’ve had a number of anxiety attacks within the small space of the Witch Cave, sometimes to the point where I have to take my shoes and run outside for some air. That’s why I moved back to Casa Z for a while. The isolation of the country kept me out of trouble on the drinking side of things, and having other people around helped cure my loneliness.

As I continued my never-ending job search, my depression only grew worse. I was being rejected in every corner of my life. After literally hundreds of job applications – most of which went nowhere, and some of which I had multiple interviews for, only to be told, “Thanks, but no thanks” – my confidence had taken an absolute beating. Every time I received a rejection letter, it would strike me down. I was constantly made to feel less than, just like every guy had done before. When you really think about it, dating and finding a job aren’t all that different from one another.

Without any sort of job to keep my mind occupied, I ended up spending a lot of time inside my own head. That kind of self-analysis is not healthy. My obsessive introspection only contributed to the digging of a deeper hole for me and my emotions.

I thought about death a lot. I thought about killing myself a number of times, but I knew I would never do it. At least, I didn’t think I would. I have a lot of pride. Part of that pride is wanting to show people that I will rise above this depression. Another part of it is having a deep belief that I have something to contribute to this world. Something that is so special, nobody else but me can do it.

I want to write a book. I want to help people. I want to make them laugh and feel happy. When you’ve been in a place where you are completely void of any joy, you never want another person to experience that kind of pain.

I was broken. I would think about the state of the world I was living in. My lack of direction. The rejection I faced from someone who I thought truly cared about me. I felt helpless. I remember lying on the floor of my parents’ basement gym and thinking about killing myself. I would stand naked in front of the mirror, tracing the inside of my arm with my fingernail as I followed my veins up and down. That’s when I knew I needed help.

At the beginning of May, I started taking an anti-depressant. First in secrecy, and then eventually telling a few people, but never mentioning it to Mom or Dad. Every excuse I used to give about my anxiety and depression had now become a reality. In all honesty, I don’t know if the pills worked.

In typical Kurt fashion, I made a complete ass out of myself at Cousin Ashley’s wedding. I blacked out before it was over.

A few weeks later, after my foot surgery, I landed my job with The Clubhouse. Things began to look up. I was actually happy for a while. The weather had gotten nicer, and I was able to move back into the bright, sunny city. I celebrated my birthday in the park, went on dates, and spent time with friends. Life was pretty good. That is, until The Clubhouse began to show their toxic true colors, I began to gain weight because of my foot, and one guy after another kept rejecting me. I stopped taking my anti-depressant because I thought I didn’t need it, but soon after that was when I smashed my face into the ground. I had shattered all hopes of getting better, both emotionally and physically.

Now, this New York City trip has happened. The speeding train that I crashed just two weeks ago has now been hit from behind by a second train – also driven by me. I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m afraid of dying. I’m not afraid of killing myself. I am not in that headspace anymore. Instead, I’m scared that I am so out of control that I’m on the verge of something fatal. This is my last chance to change.

I want so badly to do better. I know I can do it. If anything, the turning point that came from today was the admittance to another person that I am in need of help. I’ve never said that to anyone before. Perhaps that’s what’s been holding me back. Sure, I can find the “Hero” within myself. I can’t face this alone, though. Not anymore. Clearly, as I have tried time and time again, and nothing ever seems to get better.

What’s comforting is the outreach from friends and family who have come to my side, knowing that I am not myself. I am not alone. I’ve felt that way for so long. Unwanted. Unappreciated. Unworthy. Now, I’m realizing that perhaps that’s not the case.

I want to return to my old self. What I want more than anything is to be happy again. I feel like I have lost that part of me. I miss myself.

Goodnight xo

The following photos were developed from the disposable camera that was in my Marc Jacobs bag: