Here it is, the lowest point of my life thus far

I hear sad girl lit is in.

I adore coffee. I love the idea of getting coffee, the aroma, the flavour, how it inspires my bowel movements, the comfort of holding a cup in my hand as I navigate trains, planes, and different lanes. The mere thought of acquiring its velvety goodness sends dopamine shooting through my head. I love the excitement of a rogue coffee past 3pm (I’m quite sensitive to caffeine so wouldn’t normally drink a coffee this late). When someone suggests a late coffee, I can’t resist the allure of the spontaneity it suggests, like needing the energy to do something fun afterward. Mostly, I love the potentiality of deterring bed time (sleep is something I do as a necessity and not a want – yes, it’s true, I hate to sleep). 

My current go-to coffee is a medium cold brew with sweet foam on top. Specifically, a Dunkin' Donuts cold brew which, considering American sizes, probably equates to a UK large. I've been drinking between two to three American-sized cups of coffee each day. While usually I'd pay more attention to my drinking habits, now I find myself with no morning commitments, no need to sleep early and rise early. So, who cares how much caffeine I'm consuming?

I've been in the US for nearly a month. It was meant to be a few days, but I keep extending the trip (the airline allowed me to do so free of charge due to severe weather). I don't have a job to return to, nor a partner, or any real grasp on my life. I have no work, projects, commissions, shifts, or any other money-making avenue lined up. But work comes and goes, what I'm grieving the most is the end of my long-term relationship. I expected to feel better by now, but all the pain I initially experienced after the breakup is returning. I'm sick of myself.

Currently, it's 2:34 am on a Tuesday, and I can't sleep thanks to the sweet coconut iced latte I downed at 11 pm, ‘cause New York is the type of city that never sleeps and you can easily pop into a Filipino dessert place for late-night cake and coffee.

To soothe the pain, I've been getting high every night for the past few weeks, and helpfully, Colorado and New York have legalised the use and sale of cannabis. I have two weed pens and edibles in my bag. I do it frequently because I enjoy how food tastes when I'm high and how I can laugh at Key and Peele sketches, forgetting how much I hate myself for a few hours.

This feels like a low point in my life. Possibly the lowest so far which is a blessing ‘cause alhamdulillah I still have much to be thankful for. Still, I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. Getting out of my longest relationship has unravelled me in ways which are both fascinating and excruciating. When I first left that relationship I remember telling a loved one it feels like the world has been drained of colour. Dramatic, I know. The colour started returning as I propelled myself into busyness; seeing loved ones, endorphin-filled workouts, starting my Substack, appreciating alone time. But the adrenaline of the breakup, and the novelty of rediscovering the forgotten has worn off. The feeling of being in a bad dream you can’t wake up from has returned.

Being unemployed for more than a year is haemorrhaging my sense of self worth and esteem too. I don’t think I have much time left in journalism. I’ve been rejected from every job I’ve applied for, even after getting through multiple stages. I haven’t made any money or had a commission in three months. I’m using my savings to pay my bills (savings which could only be achieved during the period I lived with my parents). I’m only surviving in New York because of the kindness of my various family members here who let me stay in their homes for free and buy me lunches and dinner or pick me up from various subway stations. I might be in one of the greatest cities in the world but I can’t even afford to see most of it.

I’m scared of going back to London, to my unwatered plants, to the drabness of my life and how it was supposed to be so much more than what it is now. Maybe all these feels are because I turn 30 in three months. Or more likely it’s the mood-altering hormones bought on by my PCOS-delayed period that has me questioning the meaning and purpose of life.

Despite having periods for 18 years now, the depression that precedes it always throws me off, especially because of my irregular cycles. So many girls and women I know have this existential dread before menstruation, and we carry on with our daily routines as normal. Being away from my usual surroundings has forced me to lean into sadness. These feelings have been rising to the surface, causing me to ugly cry on the bus and subway, stifling my sobs as my cousin sleeps peacefully near me.

Tomorrow, when I head to Dunkin' Donuts for my millionth cold brew, I'll attempt to suppress the depressive thoughts that make me feel like I'm the only person in the world with problems. Instead, I'll remember that in the grand scheme of things, I'm really not. Alhamdulillah, I have my faith, my family, my health, my friends, an education, and a home. Everything else will come in due time. Inshallah.

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I am aware of how navel-gazing this post is and how self-absorbed I sound. I apologise!

I wrote this piece around 3 am, fuelled by coffee as you know. I'm def going through a hard time (as we all do!), but comparatively, it's not even that bad. I'm just in my feels. It’ll pass.

Read more about sad girl lit here.