It finally happened this morning at 6:50 AM in a parking lot off of Ocean Park in front of the beach.
Whatever you want to call it.
Everyone knows I'm not a morning person. Getting up at 5 AM to drive to Santa Monica to then sit my ass on a bike for nearly 10 hours, 80 miles wasn't exactly a highlight of the week I've been looking forward to.
I'm tired of the cold. I'm tired of the heat. I'm tired of preparing for the cold and getting the heat. I'm tired of preparing for heat and freezing to death. I'm tired of sweating. I'm tired of doing nothing but going up hills. SLOWLY. And then learning there is another hill. Only bigger. Then another one. And another one. And another one. I'm tired of being tired when I'm done. I'm tired of seeing the same damned road. All I'm doing is one big giant loop. I may go twenty miles out, but by the time I'm done, I'm going to be right back where I started.
And while I was trying to pump up my tire with a new pump I bought last night, I lost it. I lost all the air out of my tire first, then I lost my mind. I sat there for nearly twenty minutes trying to pump this damned tire and it wasn't having it.
That's right. Couldn't pump a tire. Not hard, right? Fairly simple thing to do.
People in their little bike storm trooper uniforms watched me in my frustration and did nothing about it. No one offered to help. And why should they? It's LA. No one is supposed to offer to help anyone. That's crazy talk. I'm working on a new horror/ thriller and just last night I was writing a scene like this. One of those situations I find terrifying - you need help and yet everyone sits around and watches, doing nothing.
Sure I could have asked for help, but at this point in the game, I just didn't even care anymore. Besides, all they are going to do is chastise me for not knowing what I'm doing and how they had to swoop in to save me.
I've been asking for help. I've tried to be thankful. I've done everything a good little boy should do. And this morning, on my hands and knees in a cold parking lot, I watched this stupid allegory for my life: I keep pumping and pumping and there is no air in my tire. What's the point? It's no use. It feels like I'm going no where fast.
I wanted to pick up my bike and toss it into the Pacific Ocean. (Came really close to doing that too, but I figured some hippie would have me arrested for polluting the ocean or endangering the dolphins). Instead I just strangled and shook it.
So I did what no one expected. I put the bike on the rack and left. All those people who sat there watching me were surprised. "Where are you going?" Home, asshole. Home. I'm going home. I don't want to do this anymore. Besides, what do you care?
And it wasn't just frustration with the Lifecycle... next Sunday is Bowling for Angels and once again I was asked to head up the celebrity team. Marcellas decided not to do it this year, so I was left to find everyone myself. The only celebs I have are Jon, Dylan Vox and Tiffany (who comes by way of Jesse Daly). Some of my people are out of town. All the other "celebs" I contacted (and I use that word generously) couldn't be bothered. Or said they would and never signed up (I'm looking at you J P Calderon and Wilson Cruz). I have a week to find a few more.
I screamed the entire way home. Beat my steering wheel. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't even do that. Halfway home I considered buying a bottle of vodka and a straw. But this past Wednesday marked a year since I had an alcohol and I figured I had enough problems as it is. Besides, I can't afford rehab right now.
So I decided I'd just buy a pack of cigarettes. But then I thought about the smell, the fact I'll get sick, it's hard to breathe and makes running difficult and makes my skin look ghastly. Plus it's been so long since I had a cigarette, why break my record just because I'm having a nervous breakdown.
So I settled on ice cream. But in the end, decided I didn't even want that, because I'd have to work off the calories. No booze. No smokes. No Ben & Jerry's. Hopeless.
I got home and started writing. Wrote for an hour and realized I've lost my mind, so I went to bed.
I woke up about eight hours later. I thought I had only dozed off for an hour. I even had to check to make sure it was still Saturday, for fear I my body and mind and totally shut me down.
I guess I was just tired. It's really exhausting pretending everything is okay.
It wasn't about the bike, but it was. It's about so much more.
If one more person calls me, IMs me, texts me or e-mails me, "heard anything yet?" I'm going to put a bullet in my skull. (My manager has probably said the same of me. "If he calls, IMS, or e-mails me one more time to see if I've heard anything...!")
I feel much better now. As soon as I got up, I had breakfast (again), got dressed and went to see FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL. (In hindsight, probably not the most appropriate movie for me to pick, but I laughed a lot.)
I'm grateful to have all the meetings in the coming days - and to be pitching LIBERTY this week with a company that completely supports me. And THE TELLING may even find a buyer.
I just temporarily lost my mind. I'll be okay. I'm feeling better.
But whatever you do, don't tell me to hang in there.