Day 2

My dad keeps trying to talk to me about my plans.  I made him leave my room this afternoon with promises that we'd talk about it some time in the future, then fell asleep for six hours.

I've been in a fog for the past few months, even though I stopped smoking pot at least three weeks ago. I can't tell if this is just a side effect of drugs that will wear off with time and sobriety or my brain's actually atrophied from disuse and abuse.  My writing is definitely not the same as it used to be, and neither is my thinking process.  It's so hard to get at the truth of what I want to say now.  I feel sick.  I've been distracting myself from the hard center inside me of what I know to be true with television and greasy food but it's always there, swelling warmly.

Las Vegas is a desert both literally and metaphorically.  The city's a vacuum I've always retreated into to treat my wounds and heal and sometimes to gouge new ones, though I don't know that I've ever emerged from it improved in any way, or even unscathed.  Logically, I know it can be a place of growth for me, but I'm wary of hope these days, seeing as to how there's been no evidence so far suggesting it leads to anything.  I'm scared of the feeling that keeps welling inside that this may be the place that things change because I'm scared of how I'll feel when they don't.  I don't want to want things any more.

Things will feel better after I put in a full day of work tomorrow at my dad's office.  My cat Tiggy will be lonely, but I won't feel like I've wasted a day.  And I'm being dragged to some workout class by my dad and his girlfriend tomorrow, so there'll be endorphins, too.