Happy Tuesday angels!
Sorry for slack a lacking on the blog post last week…I really don’t have an excuse other than I didn’t feel like writing one. I didn’t want to write about my morning walks because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually doing them for my mental health or if I’m hoping for body modifications to follow (come on skinny legends!). For now, I’m enjoying the vitamin D and the hour of activity I’m getting (almost) every day.
I’m going to be really brave and say I don’t think it’s disordered. I did nawt go on a walk for multiple days and didn’t feel jittery or guilty about it. So…everybody can pop bottles or whatever.
Unfortunately, Miss Summertime Sadness has shown up in a big way.
I get in this two-week pit every summer where the foods I normally love feel like sludge, I only feel anxious or despondent, and the only things I have energy for are audiobooks and iPhone solitaire (maybe my iPad color-by-number if my eyes don’t hurt). I’ve figured out this depression happens annually because the summer is usually a big time pause for me and I’m not able to constantly distract myself with work or social engagements and must exist in my brain for more than ten minutes.
Not to be totally girl boss maximize my time but it’s almost perfect that my depression era is happening now because I am cat sitting for Milwaukee’s Elite—Jenna and Spencer of the Lower East Side and their Little Prince Skip.
It is awesome sitting with Skip on my belly. We’ve been watching Insecure and listening to the audiobook for Miracle Creek by Angie Kim (thank you Sam Irby for the recommendation and Claire McHugh for telling me it was worth the read).
I’m realizing that my ultimate goal is to get a kitty cat once I’m salaried. I’ll obviously get a stray but ideally I want a black kitty like my first cats Patch and Bandit. (Drake—if you’re reading this can you ask your intern to book us an hour at Sip ‘N Purr? And make it a recurring thing please. Thanks.)
I kind of figured out how to make a super slay margarita with lime juice, Casamigos Blanco, simple syrup, and a splash of lemon juice—plus I salt the rim of the glass (a high blood pressure rim job as I always say). It is the perfect afternoon slurp. Especially if you’ve had too many lattes or work meetings (*laughing crying emoji* *laughing crying emoji*).
Even though I’ve been feeling like an industry plant triple threat (my talents include being unattractive slash unfunny slash uninteresting), I am finding enjoyment in Pinkpanthress, Charli XCX, Lorde, and Rachel Chinouriri’s music. They are the pop princesses of my personal moment. So, let’s all write letters to the Academy and make sure these ladies EGOT this year. I’m pretty sure they already have Tony’s.
I can’t stopping thinking about when Pinkpanthress says, “One day, I just wanna hear you say, ‘I like you.’ What’s stopping you? Ah-ah-ah-ah. What’s stopping you?”
Or when Charli XCX says, “Too cute, no, this ain’t me now. Candlelight, out on a starry night. You brush my hair to the side and you tell me I’m pretty. Yuck, now you got me blushin’. Cheeks so red when the blood starts rushing.”
Or when Lorde says, “The minds we had, the minds we had. It’s not enough to feel the lack. I want ‘em back, I want ‘em back, I want ‘em. You’re the only friend I need (you’re the only friend I need). Sharing beds like little kids (sharing beds like little kids). And laughing ‘til our ribs get tough (laughing ‘til our ribs get tough). But that will never be enough (but that will never be enough).”
I’m right on the cusp of growing up. I hope.
I just got back from dinner with Drake, Rose, and Stinger. I had an onion and cheese enchilada that left a lot to be desired but it was the only sit down place serving food after 8 pm on a Tuesday (this is a lie and I don’t care). I obviously filled everyone in on all of my crushes and Drake said that I needed to grow up.
What is wrong with me?
I ask this a million times a day.
It’s probably an attachment to rejection that fulfills an internalized assumption. I pine after unavailable or uninterested people because there’s no possibility of having to be known or loved by them. I get to be the fool that ruins or inconveniences their day. Or, god forbid, an irrelevant NPC they don’t even remember is there. It’s a role that slips on like a worn t-shirt.
I can’t think about it too much or I’m gonna have a breakthrough and become a better person.
Would you believe me if I said that I had a Florence Pugh a la Midsommar sob the other day?
I wailed about my failure to be a person with substance and empathy. It started because I was washing the dishes and wondered if I’ve ever loved anyone. I hope it’s my summertime sadness bubbling into apathy but at the time I couldn’t think of an instance that I had given myself over to love in an honorable way. I cried about being selfish. Being ungiving. Being vain. Being wasteful. Being a waste. Being an ugly waste. And (as you can imagine) the sobs spiraled from there.
The worst part about the moments where I let the flood gates open is that I can’t decide if I want to stay true to my values or not (a lot of politicians can relate to me here! Laughing crying emoji. Laughing crying emoji).
My politics know about the zillions of industrial complexes and racist capitalistic reasoning behind all of my surface level insecurities. There is a massive absence in my chest that I’ve been brainwashed into believing will be filled if I master the perfect balance of fuckability and cuteness. And still I cry about being ugly.
And then I cry because I’m not body neutral and I’m setting a bad example and how can I claim to believe something I ignore at my most vulnerable.
And then I cry because why am I crying about people not liking me when I should be crying about how I don’t love people in ways that they feel.
Now dear god this is the most boring blog post ever because depression is boring and just a spiral of repetitive thoughts that leave me with an empty bank account.
I’ll end with a few sentences about hope I guess.
I went on a walk after work today and I wanted to cry during it but I don’t think I’m pretty enough to cry by the lake in public.
Like, imagine someone’s trying to propose or say ‘I love you’ for the first time and like fifty feet away there’s a sweaty blob dripping snot into the sand… And I’m not in great shape so I have to like deeeeeep breathe like a pug catching its breath when I cry.
So, instead of crying on my walk I just looked at the sun reflecting off the lake and let my eyes water. To be honest, I wanted to jump in. I thought about doing it–not a worrisome amount just enough to be intrusive. I thought about the riptide and the rocks and all the beer bottles and blunts that house waterbugs and guppies. I remembered a book I’d read as a kid that said drowning wasn’t painful after a point because you lose consciousness.
But I kept walking and got mediocre enchiladas and laughed about Nathan Fielder with friends and made it home to sit with Skip.
Comments