Tag Archives: depression

Reaching

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.

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The problem with being crazy is that when you do something “crazy,” everyone thinks you’ve gone crazy

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.

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So in the end, all is fine, espeically beause we got to remininsce about Eric’s mullet.

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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!

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#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.

 

 

Family Planning, Part 2

(Related to Family Planning )

Eric just learned that his company offers paid paternity leave. This, naturally, lead to a serious, contemplative discussion about parenthood.

(No, I’m not pregnant).

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We’re obviously kidding, relax.

They’ll be a soccer team.

I hate football.

 

Oh I See What You Did There

Parent of student: “Why isn’t her math improving more?!”

Me (aloud): “Progress takes time.”

Me (internally): “Little do you know, ‘Progress takes time’ is just my vague, polite, professional code for GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK, LADY– I see your kid one hour a week. If she doesn’t put in the effort between sessions, well…I’M NOT A GODDAMN WIZARD.”


Me: “Why aren’t I improving more?!”

Therapist: “Progress takes time.”

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But I Pay You to Be an Infallible Robot

Me: “I did what you suggested, but I think it made me feel worse.”
Therapist: “Ok, well. That is information.”
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Therapist: “I apologize if it made you feel worse. Sometimes my advice is wrong.”
Me: “What?”
Therapist: “I make mistakes.”
Me: “WHAT?!”
Therapist: “I am only human.”
Me: “YOU ARE?!”

Puppy Update

A little while ago, I declared on social media that we were getting a puppy. I posted a picture of Nippie (below), our future dog’s mother, and announced that our pup would be arriving at Christmas. The internet went crazy (re: the photo got like 6 Facebook likes and 2 Wow! faces).

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Well, that is no longer happening.

The breeder told us that Nippie, a sassy little minx of a Swedish Vallhund (wtf is a Swedish Vallhund? We don’t exactly know, we just know it looks like a Corgi-wolf, which sounds like a mini version of a Direwolf, which sounds fucking awesome), would be the next dog in her batch to get preggo. The breeder had found a worthy match for Nippie (Vad, a show dog/cocky little son of a bitch), and, she assured us, the sparks would inevitably fly. 

Wrong.

Nippie has chosen not to take a lover this season.

Maybe she just wasn’t that into Vad. Maybe she prefers a more down-to-earth dude. Maybe she’s a lesbian. Maybe she just needs a little wine to get in the mood. Maybe she’s on anti depressants that sometimes totally kill her sex drive. Maybe I should stop talking about myself.

Anyway, it’s not happening.

Yet.

After Nippie decided she was too good for Vad’s lovin’, I then decided I was too much of a nuerotic, seasonal-affective hermit-weirdo to train a puppy in the winter. So we’re still getting a dog, but it’s not happening until the spring, and it might be a different breed than first announced.

Truth be told, were not even sure what we CAN get, because Eric is randomly allergic to every other kind of dog breed on Earth (and ALL cats, because cats are terrible creatures that shouldn’t exist). The only way he knows for sure is if he rubs his face vigourously into a dog’s coat, which, by the way, is exactly what happens every time he sees one on the streets of NYC. This has caused awkward moments with half the city’s pet-owners, but at least he has his method down to a science.

I make him shower 7 times a day.

The problem is that we have never actually met a Swedish Vallhund, we just hear they are “less sheddy” than corgis. But a corgi is all Eric really wants in life. The last time he rubbed his face on one (about a month ago, on the way to Mexican dinner, where he ordered fajitas and did not wash his hands), he had no allergic reaction.  But the idea of getting a dog that sheds its entire coat twice a year seems…unwise? Plus, do I really want to clean all that hair around the apartment? I don’t even clean MY hair!

That has not stopped Eric from sending me no less than 637 corgi Instagram videos a day.

So that’s where we are– wanting a puppy in the spring, but still not sure which kind or how exactly to go about it.

Suggestions welcome.