Clawing and wailing and madness
what kind of exhibitionist memoirist-type would I be if I didn't share this mood?
Over a relaxing breakfast this morning — earl grey tea, queso fresco, blueberries — I was reading an urban fantasy novel and came across the phrase, “They had loved each other for so long, she didn’t even really know what loneliness felt like.” My first thought was, “Well shit, good luck when he dies.”
My grandmother would likely tell me not to make such a mindset public but she’s dead. My therapist went on vacation last week and if there’s ever a day I needed therapy it was yesterday, which was perfect because I had an appointment scheduled for yesterday. But my therapist, a veteran, made an appointment at the VA for 1:30 and was shocked to report — 5 minutes prior to my hot walk to the office — that she wouldn’t be back by 3pm (and she was booked all day so she couldn’t see me later). When the angelic receptionist whose phone call I hadn’t gotten informed me of this upon my arrival, I had a cinematic meltdown and, alone in the sweet cozy Mental Health Place with her and the owner, I shouted something along the lines of, “I WAS RAISED TO HATE AMERICA AND I FUCKING KNEW THAT THERE WAS NO WAY TO GET OUT OF THE VA IN AN HOUR AND A HALF, HOW THE FUCK DIDN’T SHE KNOW THAT?!”
Here’s the miraculous part, though: they didn’t treat me like I was losing it. Because I am back on a coast where people Have Emotions. The owner sat with me and allowed me to vent about my laughably trigger-filled weekend during which I kept Ian up all night for days on end for reasons even I will spare you. By the end of it all I felt perfectly held. And you know what the owner said to me, in regards to rescheduling? “Thank you for your patience.”
I actually laughed. “You call that patience?” I said. “Wow, we’re really not on the West Coast anymore.”
Ian was present for the calmer half of this memorable afternoon because he had arrived to drive me to the gym, which readers who’ve kept up will remember that sighs-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth I cannot walk to. Had they built the place anywhere other than West Campus I could, but they had to construct it in the relative middle of nowhere in order to make room for two gigantic basketball courts, multiple pools, an indoor track, and an indoor rock climbing facility.
On the ride to the gym, when I was marveling at how humanely I had been treated, Ian listened and then said, “Well, remember, they are mental health professionals. They can tell the difference between ‘someone’s having a moment here’ and ‘someone’s an actual threat.” Very true, as is (sometimes irritatingly) everything he says. But still!
Twitter is officially dead which is why it’s now called X, like the shape of people’s eyes when they die in cartoons. I rail that I don’t care and I’ll be a stronger writer when I no longer worry about how scores of strangers might react to even my unexpressed thoughts, but I’ve also lost my favorite coping mechanism, which is, I can be honest now: one of my issues is wrecking my relationship, time to go flirt with strangers.
If I know you from twitter then I belatedly apologize for using you. I don’t feel as bad as I might because I can also tell when I’m being used for similar purposes: once a dude went way too far and when I was like “whoaaaaaa that wasn’t just lighthearted flirtation I am now officially very uncomfortable,” he admitted that he’d been going through a difficult time in his life. This is absolutely without reserve not what friendships should be for.
But! I haven’t actually used all 600-something of the people who’ve enriched my life from the unpredictable realm that WAS Twitter. I’ve made some truly solid friends there, and there are also several acquaintances that I simply quote all the time, out loud, because they’re insightful and hilarious. We created something very, very special, and now it’s gone. I’m trying to think of it as a beautiful sand castle but the reality is, I’ve always been depressed and angry about the inevitable destruction of sand castles. Ian spent his early years in Japan and was formed by a Buddhist mindset. I was not.
I’ve also got a lot of pieces out on submission right now, and I have no idea who’s going to accept what but I’m really proud of them. I’m doing my best work now that this IS officially my WORK and I’m about to lose the most realiable way I had of promoting said work. Oh well. They can’t take this away from me. Or my Medium page where I get weird. But neither is quite the same as cracking tasteless jokes with someone in Croatia about the news.
On a broadly related-if-only-to-my-mind note, why isn’t everyone talking about “What Was I Made For?” Billie Eilish’s devastating ballad from the Barbie movie? I haven’t seen the movie yet but this song this song this song this song this song am I really the only one crying over here?
I should go. Who knows what unrelated topics I’ll ramble on about if I don’t decide to put your time before my need to cope-through-rambling.
I don’t smoke pot, but at the moment, I would like to, so why not end it on this: