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.