I remember, years ago, overhearing a couple of my cousins saying, You’ll never be as skinny as you are at your wedding.
I like to know what they were on, because I am three months out from my wedding, I am stress eating like a motherfucker, and I’m pretty sure they’re going to have to change my name on my wedding invitation to large Marge. You could fit two skinny brides in my wedding dress.
Bitches. Not my cousins, I love them, just the people who are skinny at their weddings.
It would be way too bridezilla of me to demand that all the guests gain 40 pounds before October, right? I’ve heard of insane brides demanding that her wedding party ladies go on a cleanse, so this would be the same thing just opposite… right?
No? Just checking.
I have a dilemma. I would really like to bitch and moan about how freaking tired I am, because that’s what the Internet is for, right? Bitching and moaning.
The problem is: if I do that, some jackass is bound to say “just wait until you have kids.” and then I will be thoroughly disappointed that said jackass is not standing directly in front of me to receive a well deserved punch in the throat.
But… if teleportation existed the way ’80s and ’90s sci-fi movies promised it would, it would be far easier for me to deliver the aforementioned throat punch. And then I could utilize the Internet for its intended purpose (other than, you know, cat videos and porn) without fear of disappointment.
The point is, kids: never believe what you see in the movies.
Inner conversation I just had with myself:
“You know, I wonder if there’s place where we can, like, rent books. That would be really good.”
“Um, genius? That’s called a library.”
I suppose if you’re going to lock yourself in a room in your house and not be able to get your mental shit together enough to actually leave the room and do the myriad things you have to do, the bathroom is not an unwise choice.
This is actually a surprisingly bolstering realization. Not bolstering enough to get me to leave the bathroom, but it’s nice to know that my fucked-up, anxiety-riddled brain at least has the wherewithal to not force me to pee in the laundry basket. So there’s that.
OK, let’s try to combat anxiety with organization. After all, part of what has me in a tailspin this morning is having too many balls in the air and feeling like I am going to fail miserably at juggling them.
It’s big, immediate things like deadlines. It’s the things that lurk around the corner, like not enough work. It’s stupid things, like why I didn’t start trying to combat been the wings years ago. It’s what am I going to do about my name after the wedding? And it’s the voices in my head trying to be louder than the ones that say writing helps, the ones saying “who wants to read this? who cares?” And warning me about the risks of honesty.
But despite the fact that I’m not entirely convinced, you can’t live your life on the bathroom floor. So… Let’s see what we can do to get up.
If you’ve been here, feel free to play along. The goal is to make a list of everything that needs to be done so it’s written down and not swimming around in my head. Ready? Go!
OK, so the problem there is when you get into multiple step things that need to be done then it just becomes another bees’ nest of bullshit. May I just say that people who do not at least occasionally feel completely pummeled, ’80s racist boxing video game style, by life are hereby formally invited to soak their heads.
I’m thinking maybe post-its would be a good method. Write each thing you need to do on one and when it’s finished, rip the post-it in half. That seems like it would be cathartic, yeah?
But acquiring post-its means going outside and going outside means leaving the bathroom. And apparently that’s too much of a fucking challenge for my brain to take on right now.
So we’re back to square goddamn one. And I’m hungry and bathroom sink water doesn’t taste nice. Any of you brainiacs have any thoughts?
(It’s cute how I write that as though people are reading this.)
“Are you suicidal?”
This is a question my doctor asked me during an appointment to get a referral to a psychiatrist for new medication.
In the spirit of both eradicating stigma related to mental illness and avoiding bullshit, I have long carried diagnoses of anxiety disorder, major depression (as opposed to bipolar depression) and attention deficit disorder. So now you’re caught up.
Trying to find the most effective way to treat/contend with my personal smorgasbord of crazy has been an ongoing project. And let it be known that the medical community does not make it easy.
A goodly portion of mental health professionals don’t accept insurance, patients often have to see one doctor for therapy, another for drug consultations, another for prescriptions, you get the idea. Basically, people who are in medical need of less bullshit get a hit parade of overpriced bullshit dumped in their laps. Rain on your wedding day be damned, Alanis should have been singing about the mental health system in America.
So when my doctor asks “are you suicidal?” It roughly translates to “there’s not an actual rush to improve your course of treatment, right?” That is the standard: If you haven’t bought the gun, squirreled away the pills, sharpened the razor, written the note… You’re cool.
To reassure any kind souls who might be concerned for my safety, no, I am not suicidal, nor do I self-harm.
But the fact that that’s basically what determines whether someone is in actual need of help drives me to a different department of the nut college than the one I’m already attending.
“Oh, you got slashed across the neck? Well, has your head actually fallen off? OK will if not you’re fine just put a Band-Aid on it.”
This is probably a poor comparison, because a deep enough blow to the neck with a sharp object could either result in the severing of a major artery or perhaps of ones spinal column, or something science-y like that. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.
The point is the chronic and sometimes overwhelming exhaustion and pure bullshit, to use a scientific term, that accompanies things like depression are not only not helped but are often exacerbated by this lovely system that we call healthcare.
And I’ll leave you to contemplate the irony of that particular title on your own.