In the last couple months I’ve actually had my friends and mentors start to try and intervene between me and the sweet comfort of my funk. They didn't just notice that something was off, by the way. ‘Noticing,’ is when some subtle detail makes you skew your head to one side and say ‘hmmm.’ I’m talking intervention. Like flat out:
“Kat, you are doing way too much and it’s showing…you’re slipping up...”
Contrary to popular belief, hitting rock bottom is not accompanied by a film noir soundtrack. There is no montage of mug shots and scandalous articles fresh off the press. There is no Biography special that tours the squalor of a Vegas motel room littered with empty whisky bottles, drug paraphernalia, and interviews with a prostitute named Trixie.
I was finally at the office of the new fertility specialist.
I thought I was going to throw up. Instead, I busied myself with conducting a design critique of the waiting room. Just a thought, but maybe lime green and sky blue in every variation of stripe and polk-a-dot is a bit too much. Just a bit. Ok, breathe Kat, just breathe.
Have you seen the movie ‘Say Anything’? You know at the end when they’re sitting there on the airplane waiting for the ding? That’s what I was like.
When the Girls’ Night Out Blitz I had my heart set on for the weekend was cancelled, I felt more depressed then I initially thought I could. I just really needed an outlet. I needed to let off some steam; to bond; to dance..to apply smoky purple eye shadow without fear of judgement.
