No human lives were harmed during the making of this post but I cannot speak for the cruel and unusual punishment used upon English grammar. This post has NOT been tested on animals, nor is it kid-tested/mother-approved. The fuckeries to follow have FURTHER not been approved by the FDA so if you consume this inorganic bullshit, I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to digest it. Please do not read if you suffer from dizziness, migraines, nausea, or any kind of intolerance to drama. Please do not read if you’re allergic to extraness. Side effects may include: anxiety, brain cell shrinkage, ICNS (I CANNOT syndrome), and sudden death as a result of zero fucks given. Please do not read while operating machinery or driving. Don’t be a dick.
Also: this is live captured footage of what I look like as I vomit my feels into this post.
And so I’ve been 32 for what…10 days now? Well I don’t know what the FUCK happened/is happening but 32 has wreaked havoc and declared bloody war upon my life. Where do I EVEN begin? Ok. You know that stupid annoying question only dorky people ask the day immediately after your birthday? “So!? (insert dorky snort) How does it feel to be (insert age)?!” And the answer is ALWAYS the same song and dance: “(Insert super fake giggle) The same as yesterday!” Well let’s just thank THE UNIVERSE no one asked me that question this year because they would have immediately regretted it considering this would have been my answer:
How does it “feeeeel?!” Let me tell you how it “feeeels” honey. Everything is a fucking MESS since 32 came uninvited and all giddy-go-fuck-me, merrily skipping along and tripping over itself and slamming into my life like “Heyyy girl! I’m here to fuck shit up!!!” I legit feel like I woke up in some twisted, sick remake of Narnia the morning of my birthday except there was no walking through a wardrobe but rather, mentally breaking down inside of a walk-in closet (twice). There was no snow, only humidity. There were no 4-legged man-horse mythological creatures and they have a name and I’m aware and I could have saved a whole like 40 words on my 2,588 word-count but I’m not researching them because they’re irrelevant unless my children are maybe part of their species. And even then. Irrelevant. There were zero lions, zero wizards, zero witches..whatever LOOK I’ll admit that I don’t know a damn thing about Narnia because I never saw any version of the movie nor did I read the novel. I have no business using Narnia as a metaphor in this post but what’s done is done.
And now the whole Narnia things seems like a waste of that paragraph but I’m determined to finish this today so here’s what this otherworldly business of turning 32 HAS greeted me with in place of all that Narnia nonsense:
- A total of 2 actual, non-hyperbolized, genuine emotional/mental/physical psychotic trio-combo-breakdowns (both of which coincidentally occurred inside of my closet which is as close to a “wardrobe” as it’s going to get in 2017) annnnnd we’re back at it with the failed Narnia reference once again. Sigh.
- A sudden realization that I may be am high-key suffering from a semi-drug-addiction and I probably need actual genuine help. Except I won’t get it because my pride and joy in life is my pride. heh.
- A demon-freckle who has possessed the top left corner of my upper lip which ZERO concealer will conceal- which just further proves my case that this is the devil’s work. And now I’m all “I need a freckle exorcism” and Google refuses to respond with an affordable freckle exorcist in my area and that’s because I should probably be Googling for a psychiatrist in my area instead. Fuck you Google.
- A party that was all-inclusive: it included a brawl, a scratch on my face as a result of getting involved with this brawl, AND full-on urinating on myself and my 35$ birthday outfit from Target. I’m traumatized and I can’t return the outfit anymore. I may have been tipsy but none of it was my fault either way. I just know my brother and my fiancé went at it and then I got so emotionally involved I got scratched and peed on myself while I was screaming at them both and then I was all like “GREAT! I FUCKING PEED ON MYSELF!” in front of everyone who was there. And then I changed my clothes and got into yoga pants and a tank top for the remainder of my party and gave zero fucks. And this is why I don’t GO OUT anymore. Because I’d pee on myself and then WHAT would I do?! I understand taking a spare pair of sandals to replace heels at the end of a long night, but I’m not showing up at a nightclub with a “going to grandma’s” duffle bag to carry around an extra change of clothes in case I pee myself. No.
- And the worst case of writer’s block that I have ever had to confront like ever. And it’s not so much writer’s “block” it’s more like… ok hold on. I’m hyperventilating….
It’s more like- I have so much to say that I’m overwhelmed and disorganized and I’ve started TWELVE unfinished drafts here because of all this sudden DOUBT that has consumed me whole. Like I want and need to get ALL OF THE THINGS across in a clear, concise, organized, effective, humorous, upbeat, and impeccable as possible manner but suddenly, no matter what I write or how I write it or how many times I keep starting a new draft NOTHING satisfies my inner-blog-beast and nothing is post-worthy and then that whole fucking act of being so hesitant and too hard on myself starts to weigh on me and weigh on me until it buries me 56 feet beneath this rubble of “I NEED TO WRITE I WANT TO WRITE I HAVE SO MUCH TO WRITE IF I DO NOT WRITE I AM GOING TO HAVE A MELTDOWN (and then I have TWO instead of one) BUT I HAVE NO CLUE HOW TO WRITE IT”.
Ok I’m good now. We’re good. That’s a lot to absorb. I’m not apologizing for it but if you haven’t left yet- now is your chance because honestly, I don’t know where the beginning middle or end belongs here. And I’m done trying to figure it out. I’m just gonna spill my fucking soul because that’s what I do. I think I already spilled it. But the cup overfloweth with soul and it’s still spilling. What a fucking mess.
Breaking Down The Breakdowns..
Now I know I tend to say ignorant shit like “I’m bipolar” and “I need therapy” and “I have a mood disorder” and ” I have severe anger management issues” and “I’m emotionally unstable because I’m a Libra” and ” I had a rough childhood full of violence and being told I’d be nothing” and “I have ADHD” and I still firmly stand by most if not all of my own self-diagnoses. But honestly I’ve never been medically diagnosed with anything. I’m in the medical field. It’s as simple as I refuse to have this kind of paper trail, or these kinds of labels attached to my life. I can control it all. Until I can’t. And even then. I’ll manage and I’ll deal and I’ll let it be until it all normalizes itself.
But turning 32 has proven me wrong I think. Because I think I’m heavily addicted to an appetite suppressant- Phentermine. There I fucking said it. 1,000+ words later. And it has nothing to do with weight loss and everything to do with how it makes me feel. Which is inspired. Motivated. Committed. Focused. Attentive. Determined. Elated. Social. Talkative. Productive. Efficient. Successful. And the only reason I’ve finally finished THIS fucking draft, is because I found the remainder of these pills that I’ve been secretly and frantically searching for everywhere, for the last 2 weeks because I think I subconsciously hid them from myself and almost forgot where I hid them. (Whattttt!!!??). Yea. Exactly. Mind blowing.
The thing is, I wasn’t aware they were addictive. It was an innocent scheme to shed a few quick pounds and motivate myself to keep them off (spare me your gym-knowledge and you’re dieting advice and expertise because I know it all and it’s boring. I knew what I was doing when I started this, I just didn’t do enough clinical research because I didn’t think it’d be a big deal). Until I had the 2 mental breakdowns that I’ve mentioned twice already, in the last 2 weeks. Both of which were so bad, my fiancé was THIS close to having to call 911 on my unstable ass. It was scary for the both of us. I’m talking, screaming and crying and kicking and not being able to breathe or see straight, kind of panic attacks. It feels like the fucking Universe is caving in on you dressed up like a killer clown and it’s going to eat you alive and whole with it’s yellow razor-sharp teeth and there’s just nowhere to hide or run to and no one can see or hear you and you just want it to be over with.
In retrospect, when I retrace the events that led to both of my breakdowns, the common denominator is that fact that I hadn’t taken said pills in “x” days because I had misplaced them. And this voice. It kept on and on and on and ON like a broken record..“where are they. I can’t find them. Who tossed them out. Why am I being betrayed. Who lied to me. I can’t find them. I need them. I can’t write. I need to write. I can’t function. I need to function. What is happening to me.” And then I was triggered by any little thing like a simple question that I just didn’t feel like fucking answering because my mind was elsewhere dealing with this fucking VOICE and suddenly, this minor internal distraction would turn into inexplicable and unjustifiable psychosis.
Break down #1 happened ON the morning of my birthday when I already had guests over (who weren’t supposed to be there till the evening, which is another trigger for me because when I make plans, I expect those plans to go as PLANNED and I don’t typically handle the unexpected need for a detour very well) and I just didn’t know how to handle the fact that there were people THERE and I had so many things to do and prepare and I needed to focus and bake my cake and decorate and they were in my WAY. So there I was, giving up on the entire fucking ordeal and having this uncontrollable attack in the corner of my closet about not wanting to deal with people and not wanting a party and not wanting ANYTHING accept to be alone shivering in fetal position in that very corner of my closet. And I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t think. I just wanted the day to END.
I wish I could put into words how intense it was for me and for those who had no idea what to do (mainly just my fiancé, the poor thing- he’s so damn sane he can’t possibly relate to ANY of my nonsense). Except my aunt. She gets it. Because she’s sort of nuts. This angel came inside of my closet after I had been in there for an hour and started casually making fun of my taste in clothes and trying on my heels with her wacky socks on and randomly modeling them while tripping on herself just to see a smile on my blanked out face. My aunt is EVERYTHING to me. I seriously don’t know how I’d handle life without this woman.
And so they say “THE PARTY MUST GO ON” but I was shocked with myself. I didn’t know what to make of it because I mean yes-I’m addicted to caffeine but to a PILL?! What!? Not me. I’m so much better than that bullshit. I’m so ABOVE that type of petty business in life. I’m a MOTHER and a professional and an artist and a semi-adulting badass kind of normal chick. I don’t “get addicted” to things and I’ve never been a drug user. I can barely tolerate alcohol for fuck’s sake! Get out of here with that drama Ely. Shake it off!
Until psychotic meltdown #2 happened a few days ago. Of course. And this time it was worse. Of course. Because if anyone takes care of her things it’s me. I work hard for my shit and damaging MY stuff has never been a thing for me it’s just out of my nature. I’ll slash a tire here and there (lol) but that’s about it. But this time there was so much throwing and pulling and ripping and screaming into piles of clothes that I wasn’t sure how it would all end and again, my poor fiancé didn’t know what to do with me or himself. He would just whisper to me and ask me to please calm down but every time he’d try to get near me my breakdown BROKE DOWN like the when the bass drops in the best part of that song that’s so damn good it gives you chills. And this time, it all kind of just happened because I was napping and have you ever been SO exhausted and in a deep-sleep and someone wakes up aggressively and you have a mini-heart attack like WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?! Well this was the trigger for this disaster. So fucking unnecessary.
And this is NOTHING because I was too ashamed of myself to keep documenting the result of this shit-storm. Luckily, my children have no idea. THAT I can control. But there were questions when my daughter happened to walk into my closet this morning… which I casually ignored and then her bus got there so I was saved by the beep.
The Conclusion (Kind of. For now..)
I know I need to STOP this nonsense and clearly there’s a problem but I’m not sure how I’m going to approach it just yet, considering I took a pill a few hours ago and now I can’t shut the fuck up. It seems like most of the other things were part of some kind of withdrawals right? Because then my lack of writing, and the petty triggers, and the panic attacks and the anger, and the lack of motivation and feeling crazy over little things like this NEW freckle on my face that I can’t hide would all make sense. Right? But the solution can’t be “ok. So take the fucking pill. It’s not like it’s heroine dude.” No. But it’s a drug and I’m using it as a crutch and there’s not enough sugar on the planet to coat that fact.
My hypothesis at this point is that I probably really DO suffer from some form of a mental illness and maybe I need treatment? Because if a weight loss pill is giving me MENTAL stability, then I was clearly lacking it to begin with. Does that make sense? If this pill, that was meant for something else, is helping me FOCUS, maybe I do have issues focusing to begin with. Maybe I do have a chemical imbalance and maybe, I just need to replace this with the correct medication.
Fucking Christ. That’s a lot for me to face right now. Especially since things have been going so well for me in other areas of my life. But I’m here and I’m saying it and I’m just gonna have to be a big girl about it and deal with these demons head-on. Where’s my fucking cape and sword….
Thanks for listening friends!