Although I couldn’t commit to calling this day ‘useless,’ per say, I could attempt to call it something on equal par of depleted energies. Yes, I went to the gym – though, I walked the 30-40 minute journey there, as I was too lost in horrible, angry thoughts to stop for a second and figure out the fastest route there by bus. So, while I was hungry and dehydrated, as I didn’t eat anything or hardly drink a drop of liquid before getting dressed and heading out the door, I felt that 30 minutes of cardio seemed appropriate, slightly elevating the resistance level than what I was used to. It was while I was lifting weights that I started to get light headed, and decided it was probably time to stop; so I stuffed 7 pieces of Mandarin chicken from China Wok into my mouth after feeling like I was nearly going to faint from the wait, and ate every piece of chicken, although the last few were painful to eat. Overstuffing myself for a first meal of the day felt appropriate, given that I was feeling quite unsatisfied about other aspects of my livelihood. The cardio did help in part to take out some of that anger. I figured it’d be a healthier way to cope than to just do nothing again.
But then I came home and did exactly just that.
I let the anger swell up again, and I tried to distract myself with YouTube – so I watched a cooking video which used ingredients I know I wouldn’t be able to find in Cusco, the John Oliver about the absolute buffoon that is a clear embodiment of the political corruption seeping into the alleged non-partisan judicial system, Brett Kavanaugh, and a little bit of Vox about why humans aren’t really naturally monogamous creatures, and finally figured the best way to distract myself would be to sleep.
So I forced myself to sleep, swaying back and forth from the anger, which was keeping my mind a little too occupied to let it drift. But it did drift, and I slept for hours, waking up every so often as one might do if they’re sleeping in the middle of the day. When I finally awoke four hours later, the room had begun to grow darker, and I decided I’d better get up and try to be conscious until an appropriate hour of sleep would arrive.
With no idea what I might do, I first stood up and walked into the kitchen, which had dirty dishes piled up, half mine I knew, that had accumulated for the last week or so. I hadn’t really touched the kitchen in at least a week, save one or two breakfasts, and a dish of mac n cheese one night. Slightly reluctantly, I did wash them all, listening to music, doing my best to focus on the task at hand rather than the disappointment which was eating away at me.
Yet, after the dishes were through, only maybe 15 minutes had passed, and the night was still young. The idea of cleaning the shower had been pestering me each time I stepped into it and closed the curtain. I kept imagining switching out my toothbrush, and using the spare to clean the grout and the nasty, un-identifiable pink substance that had accumulated on nearly all the tiles towards the bottom. So I let my cleaning mind continue forward, and spent nearly 45 minutes or possibly even an hour scrubbing and cleaning and watering down, and scrubbing again, until the result seemed clean enough, and my arms were somewhat sore.
But I wasn’t through. Thoughts still filled my mind of things I could have said, responses that would have shown more strength, and possible responses to messages that really I knew would never come. The small excerpt I wrote last night summed up my thoughts on it quite concisely. That I give too much, expect more than I should, and that the behavior displayed is a clear indication of a lack of genuine interest. And this is always what happens – I’m surprised it took so long this time. Of course, it doesn’t hurt any less, but already, since yesterday, thoughts of trying to find someone to bounce back on have filled my head, and tickled my fancy.
Dancing on the bar at Inka Team last Saturday was liberation and clear possibility I haven’t felt in a while. It was a control over my body that I felt I haven’t possessed since I pledged my loyalty to a flakey, over-indulgent, uncaring other.
I really wasn’t through, though, so I grabbed the broom and swept every inch of the house, save my two roommates’ rooms. Sweeping my room, I was quite surprised at the amount of dust that had accumulated under my feet, and sweeping it all away was relief that I didn’t realize I had needed. It had been too long since I really felt like I had control over my time. Despite being able to divvy out my time perfectly well, I didn’t feel like the tasks that I had the option to spend my 24 hours doing were what I really wanted to do.
Certainly not my job – I don’t enjoy spending my entire day mentally dedicated to a job. Even if I am allowed a six hour break in the middle of my day, it’s not as if those hours truly belong to me. Six hours becomes around five when you factor in the walking time, and five hours is hardly enough to do anything when all I’m yearning for is sleep. But it’s not a true rest, for I must soon arise and repeat, turning my 5 day work week into 10 half days, each awaking from a slumber to stumble over to an institution which runs more like a business than a center for education.
Once the sweeping was done, I moved onto the bathroom sink, toilet, soap holder, trashcan, wiping it all down, hoping to actually notice the difference in cleanliness. Then the toilet bowl, with its stain which won’t disappear. I scrubbed at it though, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, and yet the negative thoughts were still creeping in, and I was feeling a type of bad that I realized could only be fixed through proper communication, a luxury that isn’t afforded to either of us.
So I opted to cook. I put on some rice to boil, sat down, began this, and when the rice was through, cooked up a tomato, and half an onion, a sunny side up egg, and half of an avocado. This was dish I hadn’t created in weeks, possibly over a month. A simple dish whose flavors I enjoyed, which I hadn’t taken the time to create in weeks because I’d felt so drained. Too drained to cook, to do what I enjoy. Too drained to evaluate my own self worth in the scheme of things.
And despite cooking, cleaning, napping, working out, and walking, I am still filled with negative thoughts. It’s a storm in my head that I’ve been weathering more and more intensely as the weeks go by. Add the feeling of no control, with constantly forcing new friendships, saying goodbye to ones I’ve grown close with, going around the city and suddenly being filled with nostalgia for a time so recently passed, and I suppose you could say I’m not happy. I’m not happy about the way I’m treated in this relationship. I’m not happy about my work situation. I’m not happy about a large portion of my coworkers. I’m not happy about the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that builds up more and more everyday. I’ve been lingering in this sadness for too long, and I can feel it wading up past my ankles, and start to wet my legs.
Perhaps I’m just not happy about the truth lurking down inside: that I have no idea what I want. All I can really say is what I don’t want, and it’s having a novio that cancels on plans we had been making for half a week, or a “friend” who does her best to make others feel insignificant when she talks to them, or a system which is threatening to penalize me for Spanish that I’ve been trying so hard not to speak in class. I didn’t speak Spanish in class! And my encuesta scores dropped 8 percent.
But does he ask how my day was on Friday? No, only leaves a question unanswered and lets me worry all night he wouldn’t come to the movie the next day. Does he really check the movie times I sent him? No, he assumes that the 11:30am listing put before the 1:30pm one meant it was showing in the evening. So those plans were canceled. Does he say more than five words to me while I see him on Saturday, after he asked me to visit him at work? No. Does he confirm at 6:00pm that he would come over, and then three hours later complain of a headache he did absolutely nothing to aid during the day, and cancel? Yes, he fucking did.
Accuses me of being too sex-crazed to let him sleep.
“No me dejas dormir. Te conozco”
As if that’s all I want him for. As if I didn’t have plans to cook crepes, and popcorn, and drizzle them with the nutella I bought for him. Or to prepare hot chocolate from the pure cocoa bar that had been gifted to me by a close colleague that was now back in the United States. And to watch the movie his dumb ass didn’t make an effort to see, and to fall asleep in his arms because I was fucking tired too.
“Ire mñn” he lied. He’s off of work in 45 minutes, and I haven’t heard a peep from that sorry motherfucker all day, save a like on my instagram post, and a post of himself, looking like a drunk caricature inside of Changos from the night I was probably dancing up on the bar at Inka Team. It’s obvious his intentions are now in the complement of myself. I won’t get a message tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either. He’ll say I forgot about him, blame me.
The sign of lunacy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Recently, I read, that’s also the sign of someone practicing something to get better. But I suppose you can’t really practice people, now, can you?