It’s Saturday morning and I’m desperate to find any excuse to stay in my hotel room. I don’t want to go out there. I don’t feel like laughing and smiling and talking and hugging. I feel like sleeping. But naturally I can’t sleep. Maybe some crying. But I get so puffy when I cry. I need to go out there. It’s ridiculous not to. So many people wish they were here, I can’t do them the injustice by hiding in my room all day licking my newly opened wounds.
I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. If you read this and see me today just give me a knowing smile, flash me some sort of gang sign to let me know you know my secret. A year ago I was the girl telling people at conferences that if they “aren’t having fun it’s their own damn fault.” I guess it’s not that easy. I can’t go out and hide in a corner because you all know me too well. It’s easy to hide depression and anxiety behind witty tweets and pretty pictures. It’s not easy to hide it when I’m standing right in front of you looking wrecked and distraught.
I have never been more thankful that I have my camera to hide behind for the next 24 hours because I didn’t bring the right drugs to hide behind this time.