May 3, 2023

This question always baffles me. I doubt everyone’s answer is truthfully how they’re feeling. With strangers, I’ll use one of the following: excellent, fantastic or wonderful. I used to respond with “surviving” but that caught people off guard. With co-workers my favorite is “better, now that you’re here.”

When my mother asks me, I usually respond with “alright” or everyone’s favorite “okay.” I rarely say “I’m not doing okay,” because that often elicits a conversation I don’t enjoy having.

Lately I’ve been feeling blah, bland, bored, indifferent, insouciant —unenthused. It’s not a feeling of sadness, I know what that feels like and this isn’t it. It’s rather a feeling of emptiness, as if something intangible is missing. Am I drowning in sorrow? No. Do I find it difficult to get out of bed? No. Am I having identity issues? Maybe. Am I lacking purpose? Yes. Do I feel unfulfilled? Yes.

When I mention these feelings of hollowness to my friends, they tell me to be appreciative, count my blessings and to look around. They tell me I’m in paradise. San Diego, California is paradise for some. People flock to the sunny costal beaches with superb dining, uproarious laughter and beautiful people. It’s a far cry from my hometown Visalia and I am grateful every day that I wake up near the ocean rather than in the San Joaquin Valley, but still something is missing.

Part of me thinks a change of scenery will do me some good. I frequently miss the busy streets, loud noises and bright lights of New York City. But I know I can’t make that type of move when I’m dealing with other things internally.

Even the NHL and NBA playoffs haven’t provided relief. While the games have been exciting and gut-wrenching my mind always thinks how the experience could be better. And that leads to exactly what I need to stay away from.

In the simplest terms, I’m an alcoholic. I make poor decisions when I’m under the influence. I put my well being in jeopardy when I drink. I concern those closest to me when I partake. But you know what sounds delectable when I’m watching playoff hockey or playoff basketball? An ice cold beer or a spicy margarita.

Of late I’ve been staying away from the alcohol, but the weed has me in a chokehold. I love weed, I really do. I enjoy the process of grinding up a nug, loading a bowl, sprinkling some tobacco on top and igniting. A feeling of complete bliss feels my mind and body after inhaling and exhaling. But like everything else, there are side effects.

I pride myself on my high-fiber diet and my ability to ghost wipe when I go number two. That isn’t the case when I smoke weed. I eat everything within reach. I keep eating, waking up to crumbs and wrappers next to my pillow in the morning. My bowel movements are irregular and I fucking hate it.

My lack of productivity also discourages me. I don’t recall who said it or where I heard it from first, but someone said, “smoking weed doesn’t make you lazy, it just makes you realize what you were about to do isn’t worth it.”

After a bowl —going to the gym, reading a book or studying vocabulary doesn’t seem as worthwhile. I’d rather post up in my bed, daydream, watch television or listen to the Dan Le Batard Show. The morning afters are terrible too.

Instead of waking up bright eyed and bushy tailed, I remain in bed until 10am. The thought of waking up at 7am, hitting the gym and doing some reading sounds so damn tantalizing. I’ve yet to smoke today and I’ve had the most productive day I’ve had in awhile.

I’ve often looked to women to fill the void. That hasn’t helped much. Although I love the constant attention women give me when I’m talking to them, I know I can become dependent on that. Don’t get me wrong going on dates with a prepossessing girl with a fat ass and pretty feet sounds lovely, but I know I can’t rely solely on that to bring me excitement. It not fair to myself and definitely not fair to someone else.

My boss pulled me aside the other day and asked me the same question: “How are you? You don’t seem your jovial self.” His concern about my well being made me smile. Although I hate that other people are noticing my demeanor/attitude, it was refreshing to realize that the man actually cares about me.

I shared similar sentiments with him. We both concluded it’s a simply a rut. Again, I’m not sad. Maybe that’s how I’m respond going forward.

“How are you?”

“Not sad.”