Urban Rogue and the case of the slightly early midlife crisis!
My colorful soul-searching had some boulder issues, like Wile E. Coyote , and fell head first into a fathoms deep misery well several months ago. A bullshit well full of hobo piss and orc vomit. Sure, I tried to climb out a couple of times, but the walls were made of dog poo and snake holes and those terrifying Australian spiders that drag entire minivans back into their underground lairs. That bucket on a rope? The one connection to the outside world full of positivity and encouragement? All it did was bring me down by constantly reminding me that I was no good.
No talent. No voice. No education. (translation: I WAS DEPRESSED REAL BAD)
Plot twist! Maybe I reached the rocky bottom of hobo piss well, but, really, I just snapped. I cut myself off from the outside world, removed myself from friend groups, and went on a mental sabbatical. I mean, sure, I was still physically here. I went to work and ate black bean burgers and scored an Avengers key chain and 2 kazoos at Dave and Busters, but I wasn’t really here. (Being a non-participant in my life is a uniform reaction to stress. I’m working on it. More on that later.)
In an attempt to fog the mirror as proof of life, I started a bizarre game of “poke the wild animal with a pointy stick” in order to discover my misery limit. The animal being my familiar, cozy, everyday life.
SO HERE’S ALL THE FUCKED UP THINGS I DID.
I actively pursued every opportunity to be written up for insubordination at my job. I began gross hygiene experiments, like, how many days can I go without a shower, or, how long can toenails get before shoes start to be an issue, and even “is washing one’s hair a social construct?”. I started a food journal to see just how long I could go without eating before I passed out. I stopped writing, replacing the time with the original Plants vs Zombies, naming my zombie killer Bitchface. So, everytime a new game started the screen would say “BITCHFACE’S HOUSE”. I quit drinking, but rediscovered desserts. Then I re-started drinking with GUSTO. I gave up meat…again. I didn’t leave the house or talk to anyone for 3 days. I began unloading all my negative feelings toward myself in a notebook and honestly didn’t know I could combine insults and curse words that way: What the hell is a Deadfuck Waste-vag?! I started talking back to that one French Quarter hobo that is always mean to me knowing full well I could possibly be stabbed.
All these things happened, and they happened alone.
The self-imposed isolation experiment had some pretty gross results, and I’m not just talking about the body odor. I cried once, on a particularly heavy weekend, when my attempts to reach out for help (a beyond difficult thing for me to do like whoa) were shot down repeatedly. This stumble into feels valley only helped to lift the fog from my pain-in-the-ass path. Friendships reevaluated, possibly eliminated. Priorities, once broad , narrowed. Sacrifices, the really hurty ones that you avoid like a water ride at a theme park (NO ONE WANTS TO WALK AROUND IN WET JEANS MY GOD) had to be made, and I had two big ones: Boyfriend, cat.
So. I’m now on the other side of that hell-beast. Decisions have been made, plans are in motion.
I’m moving home.
Well, kinda. I’m moving to Los Angeles, which is pretty much home adjacent (I’m from Torrance. Remember those dickhead cops outside the recording studio in Straight Outta Compton? That was Torrance. Also pretty accurate).
Leaving behind a boyfriend, a cat, a steady job, and starting over at 38 is terrifying and wonderful and is forcing me at mental gunpoint to deal with a whole mess of brain shit that, to be honest, I had no intention of dealing with until a MUCH later date.
And guess what guys: I’m going to document the whole damn thing. The packing and the eliminating and panic attacks. The doubt-fueled breakdowns. Am I doing the right thing? Is this really the best decision? DO I EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I’M DOING???!!! How am I going to survive? WILL I survive?! What if I never find love or stability again? I’m almost 40 and a hack and I CAN’T DO THIS.
But I am doing it. Arrangements have been made.
Also, I have a nervous stomach and throw up when nervous or pressured or stressed. So, you’ve got that to look forward to. Which is nice.
The Urban Rogue reboot is going to be very messy, riddled with mistakes, and cringeworthy in its level of bad decision-making. I’ll try not to throw up on you.
Kidding. I’m aiming for your shoes.
“If I can’t find the money, then I can’t buy the time. I’m stuck here making someone else’s dime” Let Margo learn you bout depression.