Bathroom escape no. 2

It is 3 am and I am standing in a bathroom in a bar, hiding.  I don’t want to go back to my companions. 

I have been drinking and listening to everyone else yell/talk over other drunken patrons and bad music.  

I have been mostly quiet and having my own inner conversation:

One where first I sort of wish you were here 

and then I drink enough that I forget you exist

and then I drink too much and can’t live without you another second

because you are both the love of my life and a mistake I keep making

and then suddenly I need to hide in the bathroom. 

I am an adult woman – a professional – who hides in the bathroom – this night, to type out crazy rambling notes about you until people begin to wonder where I’ve gone and I begin to wonder why I don’t take all my therapy sessions in stinky dimly lit stalls. I go through the entire range of human emotion before I persuade myself to go back to the bar and rejoin reality. 

And yes: I’m still hiding in public bathrooms in my forties and I’m just not all that emotionally functional.  And most of the time, I pretend that no one really notices and it’s fine. 

Except fine is a ham sandwich. 


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