2 days before I leave for Vegas I wake up in the middle of the night realizing I can’t breathe, my nose is clogged. What I thought were just fall allergies are not; I am fully sick. But this trip I have been dreading/planning for 5 months must go on. I get to the airport in such a bad mood about the day ahead. I am exhausted and I have to get me and my mother from NY to Vegas, doing all the ubers, the scanning of barcodes, the lifting of carry ons. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but for a newly sick person it feels like a lot. All of these things are why I didn’t want to go on this trip in the first place. Me and my mother have not gone on a trip just the two of us ever. But in the fallout of her turning 66 and having a manic episode, she got fixated on going to this comedy festival in Vegas. I protested, then obliged. Which is a common theme between us.
Every day in Vegas I wake up hoping I will feel better, and for most of it I am in a haze of exhaustion. By Friday, I am already so frustrated with being stuck on this trip with my mother, I go to a weed consumption lounge, take a dab for the first time in years, and between the sickness and the dab, think I am going into cardiac arrest. We proceed to bolt out of the consumption lounge, leaving our cannabis cocktails barely drank, and continue our (my, these are all my plans, she does not make any plans) plans to go to the strip. I tell my very high brain that once the klonopin kicks in and once I get to The Cosmopolitan hotel, everything will be okay. And I actually have a great time (because I get drunk.) Going from happy hour to speakeasy, ending at the handroll bar where we have some sort of heart to heart/deep conversation I can’t remember one sentence of, besides my mother saying “Everyone goes through things that no one else knows about.” while I say pointedly “Yeah, everyone does go through things no one else knows about.” We are both speaking about ourselves, not listening to each other, harboring resentments, as per usual. When we get back to the hotel, I have the best time by myself while she goes up to the room. I do my typical routine of winding down the night with a blue moon (or 2…), complete my goal of playing blackjack (electronic, but whatever, still satisfying for me), and win $50 for the first time ever at a wheel of fortune slot machine. It’s probably the best moment of my life.
Saturday is the comedy festival, and again I’m so tired. We keep waking up so early because we’re still on New York time. We eat breakfast at 8 AM, skip lunch, and by the time I get to the first comedy show I feel like I’m going to faint. It’s 104 degrees outsides and all of the shows are standing room only. I manage to enjoy the shows, we rest in between. I try to make it to the comedy jam at the end of the night, but by 1 AM, I want to collapse. I think to myself that if I were with someone else, I would have rallied, kept dranking, and made it. But because I’m with her, and she won’t just let me be there alone, and she also looks like she’s about to fall over, we go back to the hotel.
The thing is, even when you’re on a not great vacation you don’t want to be on, with people you would prefer not to be on vacation with, it’s still somehow better than real life. At least mine. Surviving a hectic vacation is a full time distraction from mental illness, money woes, and all other areas of life where you feel inferior.
Oddly enough, I love Vegas. I’m not a huge gambler, or someone that wants to go clubbing all night; but I love the energy. Every time you walk into a hotel or a casino, it feels important for an inexplicable reason. Even though people are essentially just draining their money in the pursuit of pleasure, dopamine, joy. For a serotonin-deprived person, this place really shoves it in your face and makes you feel like you’re somewhere where there is a lot going on and life to live.
Now I’m home, still sick, and about to turn 31 next week. I cried yesterday and today. That sense of loss that turned into high gear when I turned 30 is back. I have been mourning the person I thought I was going to be all year, and I’m sure there is more to come. Feeling stuck in so many aspects of life, work, love, home, health, mental wellness.
But I want to give myself the props I deserve for every single thing I did this year to try and better myself. I have done ketamine, kickboxing, gone to manifestation classes, meditations, salt caves, saunas, yoga, reiki, barre, reading clubs, float tanks, speed dating; cut down on smoking, drinking and other drugs; walked a mile most days; went back to therapy; said no more; said yes more; explored spaces and communities that match with my interests in hopes of feeling more connected to myself. Did it work? I’m not sure. Yet. I don’t think that’s the point. I think doing is the point. I told myself that this year I was going to make myself believe I give a shit about myself, by doing. And I did.
And I know I have the building blocks of a good life. I have more great friendships than anyone deserves. People who love me and see me, show up for me, and I do the same. People I want to be around and go through life with, forever. People I am lucky to have by my side for all of it. Who are there even when I don’t fully realize it. I am a “good” person. I try to show up authentically, with good intentions. But unfortunately the messy parts are probably the most interesting parts of me; the times when the id takes over, when I say “fuck it” and allow my emotions to drive, tie up my better judgement and stuff it in the trunk to deal with later.
The worst part about turning 30 was how lonely it felt. Feeling like emotionally I have never been fully taken care of. That I’ve always had to do it myself. Realizing all the ways my parents created the conditions for me to be this way. Wanting a partner so badly. For so many reasons. Wrong ones, right ones. For intimacy, for comfort, for someone to be there to help me with these logistics of life I have been so used to shouldering on my own. I just wanted someone to lean on, to not feel like I was always trying so hard to hold myself upright.
But the scariest thing about turning 30? Fully realizing that no one else is ever going to pull me out of the places I feel stuck. Only me. And that makes me feel more lonely than I could ever explain.
