My therapist calls and I pick up to begin our phone session…
Me (sniffling): “Hello?”
Therapist: “Are you ok?”
Me: “Yes, sorry, I just made the mistake of watching This is Us on DVR and of course now I’m ugly choke-sobbing.”
Therapist: “What is This is Us?”
And then I got a new therapist.
Me: “I just haven’t been feeling great for the past month. I’m exhausted and unmotivated and just want to hibernate.”
Therapist: “Wine or booze?”
Me: “Oh my god, yes! Please! Both!”
Therapist: “Excuse me?”
Therapist: “I said ‘winter blues?'”
Therapist: “What did you think I said?”
Just thought you were offering an ACTUAL CONCRETE SOLUTION FOR ONCE.
Real Story: A guest at our wedding is a friend of Ben Platt’s parents. This guest told Ben’s parents that “You Will Be Found” was our first dance song, and Ben’s parents told Ben, who then very graciously offered to autograph a photo for us.
Story I tell myself: Oh, NBD but Ben Platt reads and loves the blog. Huge fan of mine. He knows I love Dear Evan Hansen and that “You Will Be Found” was our wedding song, so he contacted our photographer and arranged this whole surprise for us because, you know, that’s the kind of thing celebrities do for their fellow celebrity friends.
Story I tell others: One of the two above, depending on how well I know you and your ability to fact-check.
Therapist: “So it seems like all those travel anxieties you had leading up to your Africa trip were, as usual, in vain, because none of them happened.”
Me: “Ummm….were you listening? I got a violent stomach bug, vomited across two separate countries/airports/airplanes, spent the whole last leg of the trip exhausted and achy– and I in fact STILL don’t feel like myself.”
Therapist: “Right but your fear is always that you’ll feel sick for no real reason. This was an actual REASON.”
Oh you are really fucking reaching today lady.
Doorman: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s a newfound skip in my step, thanks to the defeat of Trump-supported child-molester Roy Moore, the win of a competent Democrat in deep-red Alabama, and a restored faith in humanity!”
Doorman: “No, that. On your face.”
Me: “Oh. That is chocolate.”
Doorman: “It’s 8:30am.”
Me: “I’M CELEBRATING.”
Things you should know if you know me.
Leaving in a couple days for our honeymoon in South Africa….
And yes, I’m allowed to refer to my mental illness as crazy but no, you are not. Unless you too have a mental illness, and if so, well then, my crazy kindred, I suggest pouring yourself a specialty drink I like to call “The Crazy Kook’s Cocktail” (spoiler alert: it’s wine straight from the bottle) and enjoying the following texts because I’m sure you’ve had to have similar conversations with your loved ones, which are on the one hand extremely sweet because you know they care, but at the same time make you want to throw your wine-bottle-cocktail against a window because AREN’T I JUST ALLOWED TO BE QUIRKY WITHOUT BEING INSANE?!
For context, I have been weaning off my Prozac (with the VERY close monitoring and responsible care of my therapist) so I think everyone around me is on extra high alert. But (remarkably) I feel totally fine. Well, totally fine for ME. I have an innate baseline functioning status of “meh.”
For more context, please know that I did not just wake up this morning and arbitrarily decide to hack off my hair (although if I did, I still don’t think that’d be insane). The decision to donate my hair is one I made over 5 months ago, and I have since been growing it out, itching for the day I could finally make the cut because I was starting to look like a mermaid (the washed-up on shore, tangled in slimy bramble kind, not the Ariel-singing-on-a-rock kind). So while the “do it yourself” aspect was somewhat spontaneous, the intention to lop off almost a foot of hair had been planned for a while now.
Finally, for clarity, I don’t blame Eric for being initially alarmed. (He also wasn’t the only one– I got an immediate text from Zack, and the only reason I didn’t get one from Mom, I’m sure, is because she is golfing/mahjonging/chardonnay-ing and hasn’t seen the post yet). I know Eric’s concern comes from a place of love (and straight up alarm, because he sort of committed to a long life with me– sucka!). But it is a frustrating byproduct of mental illness that if you do something “kinda weird” while feeling good, it’s a sign you’re losing your goddamn mind.
So in the end, all is fine, espeically beause we got to remininsce about Eric’s mullet.
Also, in hidsight and in fairness, I suppose my intial presentation of the situation in that first text was confusing and alarming, but I guess I overestimated how immune Eric is to my eccentricity.
Regardless, in the future, I’d like to spend less time defending my crazy and more time enjoying the fact that what I did was kind of weird, and being weird is awesome. I feel great!
#ShorthairNOWdontcare (thanks to Jose at Aveda Salon, who actually said I did a pretty decent* home job so SUCK IT).
*He reined in the word “decent” and replaced it with “not terrible, and next time don’t” after he saw how excited I was by his compliment.
Dad: “You can’t post things that are going to make me worry.”