Hi, Remember Me?

It’s been a while.

Last week, one of my friends said I was like “a real adult.” I told her that I’m just good at pretending. Would a real adult get an email notification from her bank that her account balance fell below $25? Twice? In one day? If the answer is yes, then you could say that yes, I am very much a real adult.

A few weeks ago, I went to my PCP to refill my anti-depressant prescription. A psychiatrist had originally written the prescription, but I couldn’t really justify spending hundreds of literal dollars per appointment. Especially since he made me cry. And not in a mental breakthrough sort of way. More like an “I feel patronized and insecure and if I wasn’t depressed before I definitely am now”sort of way.

Truth be told, I’d gone to this shrink to get Adderall and then chickened out, partly because I was pretty sure that I needed anti-depressants, but mainly because I felt too suspicious. When it comes to getting through TSA with a razor in my carry-on or being pulled over for pulling a U turn over double yellow lines, I’m good! But a prescription for Adderall? Nerdy white girls ARE the suspect profile. Never mind the fact that I forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence! Or stop paying attention to other people when they’re in the middle of a sentence! Or forget what I’m doing in the MIDDLE OF DOING IT.

Or that I forgot why I’d started writing any of this post in the first place.

I wanted my PCP to refill the prescription and to provide one for Adderall. I thought he’d be cool with providing a sketchy scrip for a not-so-sketchy girl who’d rather watch 10 hours of TV and not even really enjoy it than write a single title page to her critical paper that’s due in a week.

He was not cool with it. He wrote me a referral and told me to call my insurance and find a psychiatrist who took my insurance, like THAT’S no big deal. I suppressed an actual panic attack and the urge to cry. Again. What kind of person tells another human to call their insurance company? That sort of action only leads to more problems. But I did it when I got home because I wanted my goddamn Adderall. The drug that motivates before you even take it.

Twenty minutes and two transfers later, the agent told me the phone call and referral were unnecessary. I only needed to go to their website and find a doctor in my network. Easier said than done. Do you know how many doctors are listed as in-network who are not actually in my network? I don’t know how that happens. Consider my mind boggled beyond comprehension. But I found someone and scheduled an appointment two days later. Drugs, here I come!

I was 45 minutes late to my appointment because I went to the wrong address and ended up at Cedars Sinai Hospital. It’s rather large. I spent 20 very confused, sweaty minutes trying to find his office, only to find out he hadn’t worked there for a number of years. I went outside and sat on some steps.I had to log into my insurance’s website through my phone, which was not nearly as inconvenient as I imagined. I found the correct address, five miles away. I might have cried, but it got mixed in with the sweat, so it’s hard to tell for sure.

I race walked to the garage where I’d left my car, only to discover that there was no way to get in. I mean, I really, really couldn’t find it. I found the valet section of the garage, inexplicably NOT LINKED to the rest of the structure. I tried to retrace my steps to the elevators I’d taken from the garage to the rest of the hospital. After a few wrong turns and getting off on the wrong floor, a cute doctor/nurse/science person stepped into the elevator.

“HOW DO I GET TO THE GARAGE?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Oh, it’s level LL. People always have a hard time.”

I did not laugh back. I pushed the button and wiped my sweat mustache, glad that I’d remembered to pay the parking fee while I’d been in the valet section of the garage. A whole $4 to park somewhere that I wasn’t even supposed to be.

I made it to Beverly Hills, relieved that there was a parking structure right next to my doctor’s office. The first two hours of parking were even free! Considering that I was already 45 minutes late, that wouldn’t be an issue.

My doctor was very nice. He asked a few questions pertaining to depression and anxiety, one of which was “Do you find yourself sweating excessively?” I just stared at him.

When our 15 remaining minutes were up, he told me that he could rush through the rest of the consultation, but that I am “intricate” and we should finish the appointment next week. I was actually ok with that, because he seemed nice and smart and I didn’t want him to think I was desperate for drugs and then not give them to me.

I left and couldn’t figure out how to get into the parking garage. Again. When I’d parked, I’d managed to remember which floor I was on, but hadn’t noticed much else. So when I was climbing the stairs of the structure, I noticed the entire stairwell looked a bit different than the one I’d rushed down 20 minutes ago, but figured they’d change when I went up a few floors. Why did I think this? I do not know. But they did not turn into the stairs I recognized, because that is not the way stairs work. So I took the elevator down to the first floor, thinking that maybe it would magically lead me to the CORRECT first floor that actually led to the parking garage.

But that did not happen, because this is not Hogwarts.

So I went down the stairs instead, to the underground, but stopped when I reached a door. It was unlocked and led to more stairs, but my fear of the door closing, locking, and trapping me in there prevented me from going further. That’s happened to me before. Numerous times. I’m glad to report that I’ve learned from those experiences.

So finally I ended up back on the sidewalk, looking at my phone, shaking my head and sighing, like I’d made all those ridiculous choices on purpose because some friend had told me they’d be waiting for me in the second level of the stairwell, no just kidding in the elevator, no just kidding in the BASEMENT.

Then I noticed the sign fastened to the bricks, noting that this was NOT a stairwell for the parking garage. I’d noticed it before, but was so sure that I was in the right place that I ignored it. Yeah, it was only there to throw others off the scent, to keep them from their cars forever.

I found the right stairwell and kept right on walking past, down the street to Sprinkles, where I got two cupcakes to cry into. One for the car and one for home.

At the end of our next session a week later, the psychiatrist gave me a few options. First and foremost, he wanted to switch my anti-depressant prescription to a more effective drug that would likely be far more effective than what the first, patronizing shrink had prescribed. He told me that I’d also likely benefit from Adderall or Ritalin. I could switch the anti-depressant and try that on its own, or combine it with either Adderall or Ritalin.

Naturally, to throw off non-existent suspicion, I opted for the first option. I still don’t have my Adderall.

The Thing About Garbage People

I just spent almost half of my tax return on making my car run better. This is awful and I haaaaate it.

I had this friend who was broken up with and pretty upset. For a while. Like to the point where people who didn’t know her that well we like “get over it” and then even her good friends were like “get over it.” And I mean I get it, because she was super selfish around that time. Lots of drama, Coachella, this and that. All very Southern California and annoying.

But at the same time I’m like… people can be pretty insensitive when it comes to others’ feelings. Telling someone to get over feeling shitty and hurt by someone they care about is just really presumptuous I think. No one really gets to have a say in how long you’re allowed to feel a certain way.

Then again, feeling unhappy or bitter doesn’t give you the right to talk about yourself all the time and ignore everyone else. We’ve all got some pretty serious first world problems. Like me not wanting to spend the money that I very much do have on a car that my parents bought me that very much needs new tires.

I’m all for letting people feel their feelings but it’s really not the biggest problem in the world and eventually everyone stops caring. So feel your feelings all you want, but don’t expect that everyone will continue to care with you.

Getting over something isn’t just about the way it makes you feel though. It’s about adjusting to a new lens and a new way of seeing life. When someone you love dies, you have to grapple with them never being around again. It’s not like they just aren’t talking to you; they’re gone forever.

But we’re not talking about death here because I’m not really familiar with it and also because comprehending the reality of it is super depressing.

But I AM familiar with breakups. Urrrrgly breakups. And like general betrayal and lying and confusion. I don’t want to presume anything about this friend’s breakup, but it seemed like a normal and healthy breakup to me. So whatever, maybe mine have been too and I’m just delusional and self-centered.

For shits and gigs let’s pretend I’m not delusional, for the sake of my reputation.

The reality of life is that we exist within relationship to everyone else in the world. Six degrees of separation and stuff like that. Our lives consist of our interactions with other people and relationships with those around us. Close relationships with people we love have a particular impact. Especially when you get dumped. Even more so when someone dies, but we’re not going there, right? Just the dumping.

I can confidently say that at one point, the getting dumped and friend shitting on your life combo scrambled my brain pretty well, for a few years. Now I’m finally getting back to being a sane human being (but possibly delusional). A solid 3 years later. Getting dumped is rough but it’s a fairly normal thing that can be handled in a respectful manner. For me, that wasn’t what made a particular relationship (or two, really, actually sort of three…) so difficult to handle. For the span of a year or so, I kept finding out about how people had lied to me, had spun lies about me, and had made sport of laughing at me behind my back.

I spent a year coming to terms with my actions as a garbage person. Actions such as dating a guy that my friend had a crush on and then succumbing to this hellfire that was created after. But like honestly, thinking about it, I just cannot fathom that anything I did was so awful that I deserved to have people intentionally hurt me.

What was so hurtful about it? That this person who I thought was my friend, who never told me that my actions bothered her, made it apparent that she had never liked me or cared about me at all, to the point where she TOLD me about about how she had sex with my ex, how often they had make out even before that, how the two of them had a threesome with her boyfriend, how the three of them laughed at the things that I texted to my ex and made fun of me together.

In the end, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life feeling bad for shit that I shouldn’t feel bad for. I pissed of a wretched person and dated a narcissist. Blaahhhh.

Then for a while I was like TRUST NO ONE, EVERYONE IS HORRIBLE but it was in a far less conscious manner. It’s honestly pretty difficult to find people who don’t say negative things about people behind their back. I’ve settled to allow light gossip. Re: the dating sitch, the dating pool in Los Angeles does not set a great standard.

I suppose something positive came out of that situation. You know, with the friend who snuck around with my ex-boyfriend for months, who later told me that I was pathetic for being so broken up about that breakup. Thanks to her, I decided to stop being friends with such awful shit monster people.

Since then, I’ve befriended some fantastic and intelligent women who actually contribute substance to my life. Even so, I have to repress the urge to overthink actions and words. Honestly, it’s a little self-centered to assume that everyone is out to get you. But passive aggressiveness ties so closely to insecurities. It’s sort of easy to think that people are intentionally needling me in parts that are most sensitive.

Even so, I’m satisfied that my old shit monster pal seems to be continuing to make the same shitty mistakes in life. Because yeah, I totally creeped.

I also have a new cruuusshhhh.

 

giphy

Some People

Some people don’t write blog posts for many months.

Some people are working on critical papers that have to be a minimum of 25 pages.

Some people are only sort of really working on that paper.

Some people just finished watching 10 episodes of the FX show You’re the Worst.

Some people were supposed to write 5, just 5, pages of their critical paper today.

Some people didn’t.

Some people are also supposed to be writing two annotations a month

About two the two books they read every month.

And the other creative work they want to submit for publishing

Or even to share with their writers group.

Or is it writer’s group?

Some people are sort of doing all of those things.

Some people are procrastinating to the extent that

Some people have written another blog post.

 

There Were Two in the Bed and the Little One Said Get the Fuck Out

For all my talk about dating and being in a relationship, I wonder if I actually even want to be in one at all. I like the idea in theory, but I’m so out of practice, I could be wrong. I mean I have a routine. It’s my way or the highway and if you choose the highway I’ll run you over with my car. I like the way things are now. If I brought someone else in then I’d probably have to accommodate them and I don’t want to do that.

But more importantly, I do not like sharing the bed. I move around a lot and like to sprawl, probably because I overheat easily.If I can’t even share a bed, how can I share my life??

new girl i sing to myself

I haven’t even lived in the same place for more than a year since I turned 18 seven years ago. Different dorms, different universities, different apartments. Everything was in a constant state of flux, but I think I wouldn’t have minded staying in the same place for a couple of years. The only problem was the roommate situation.

There is nothing inherently good about living with someone else. Best case scenario is that they have nice stuff they’ll share with you. Unless of course YOU are the one sharing and THEY are taking. And taking. Andtakingandtakingandtaking and never giving back.

But that’s not even so bad. The worst thing about living with someone else is that they’re around whenever they want. Even if you don’t want. And I rarely want. The longest I’ve lived with another person is two years. It only happened once, against my better judgment, and it was awful.

The only person I can count on is my cat.

But even our relationship is precarious at best. Like when she’s meowing at me to pet her and love her but I’m trying to focus on finishing my large cheese pizza. But it’s also pretty annoying when she shits on my carpet and pees on my bed.

Ok I mean that bed peeing thing only happened the first couple of months that I got her. But I was ready to turn her out on the streets. Honestly, one of the reasons why I got her instead of a kitten is because she’s old and I know she’ll die in a reasonable amount of time. Like 5 years tops.

How people my age are already reproducing ON PURPOSE is beyond me.

AND THEN, just when I think I have it all figured out, some unreasonably hot guy strikes up a conversation with me at the grocery store as the sweat from my workout is drying and a new sweat mustache is forming. I’d forgotten a bobby pin so my bangs are all askew and I’m wearing my glasses, my makeup basically all melted off at that point.

I basically looked like a monster.

For some reason he asked for my number and then actually used it.

I don’t know. I don’t get it. I give up.

Orange is the New Black

When you find out that a guy you were seeing a few months ago is dating someone else. This would not be a big deal except this guy is actually going to PRISON at the end of the year for NOT a short amount of time because he did some pretty shitty stuff.

The guy who is going to PRISON has managed to find someone who will still date him even though he is GOING TO PRISON and you cannot.

Because you are a meanie.

And scare even the nicest guys away after two dates. Because you are mean.

Except you didn’t even realize that you were being mean and maybe you WEREN’T but maybe the this second date guy exists on a different planet where people communicate differently than you and you weren’t mean at all but you hurt his feelings anyway. And he seems like such a good guy that try to apologize for being mean EVEN THOUGH YOU WEREN’T but he’s ignoring you because he’s not an insane masochist and then you feel awful about it forever even though it was maybe not meant to be in the first place.