I Loved My Crack Den

I haven't posted anything on here in over a month. I haven't felt a strong inclination to write a blog, a joke, or a story. Nowadays, I mostly write about how I can't write.

Even as I was typing that, I wanted to stop and curl up in a ball.

I'm incredibly sad for some reason. This summer, I had the best time being a 21 year old in the city. I was really and truly happy.  It radiated off of my skin. I loved the mattress I slept on that resided comfortably on the floor of the room I lovingly referred to as my "Crack Den". I loved my job babysitting drunk middle aged out of towners. I loved the Chinese place down the street's ability to make my General Tso's with haste. I loved my life in Uptown. I was really feeling like myself.
Around mid-August, I started to notice I was just going through the motions. For the most part, all I wanted to do was stay in bed or get drunk/high or be with the boy's bed drinking/getting high. The passion and excitement of summer had faded away slowly and seamlessly.
The idea of writing a joke right now fills me with anxiety and fear. I'm not the kind of comedian who writes EVERYDAY but I can typically come up with at least one bad joke a week. Every time I try, it turns into a rant about something like women's rights or gun violence that isn't insightful, just aggressive.
I find that when I'm out with people, I feel great. I love talking and joking with my friends. I also really love my job. It's the only job I've ever had where I can forget everything that's happening in my personal life and enjoy my work. It's one of the rare times when I really feel like myself.
But then when I get home to the silence, I can only hear my sad, negative thoughts.
I've started to really doubt myself as a person. You're not a good person. You don't stand for anything. You aren't helping anyone. You're a bad friend. You're the reason none of your relationships ever work out. You're not funny. You're shit. It's gotten bad. The kind of bad that hasn't happened in a very long time.

I don't have a conclusion because I'm still trying to figure it out. I don't even know why I felt so compelled to write this. Maybe I need help. Maybe I need to stop telling people I'm fine. Maybe I'm repressing something. I'm really not sure. Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow and feel perfectly fine and be embarrassed that I ever posted this. We'll see.

Thanks for listening. Come back for more.