Well, I thought it would be a good time to post something new
since I have recently been falsely diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It
really sent me into a fucking depression for a few days there. I was going to
sign up for disability and start collecting my checks. I felt like a fucking
crazy person. Not that people can’t function with those disorders, but damn, I
can barely function as it is, so that was like way too much for me to handle.
Plus, this so-called psychiatrist, who turns out to be nothing more than an
ARNP, prescribed me gabapentin, which made me fucking insane for a few weeks,
but then, after I complained about the gabapentin, she wanted to put me on
Lamectyl, one of the two main drugs for bipolar disorder! And I am NOT bipolar!
I might be a nut—I might pull out my hair, chew on my lips and fingers, and have
an immense capacity for self-loathing, but I assure you, I am not bipolar. I
should be so lucky as to enjoy manic episodes of overwhelming self-esteem and
delusions of grandeur. No, lucky me, I suffer from pure MD….Major Depression.
Yes, that’s right, it’s the depression part of bipolar without the fun part (the
part that keeps people from wanting to take their meds). Yeah, woohoo, yay, me!
I have regular-ass old depression. Old school, writer shit. Typical Jew shit. Go
figure, big fucking surprise. So I can’t get a real job, or a real life, I’m stuck here in my dad’s house, a thirty-one year-old chick, with a less than part-time job, and a desire to
become a “published author” one day, when I’m the only one (and occasionally my
therapist) who reads my blog. I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine and then
silently snuck into my dad’s bathroom and found a bottle of benzos from 1996.
Will they still work? I took four. We’ll see. I also binged on peanut butter and
various sugary substances for the first time in a long time. I’ve been doing
good, in fact, I weighed myself today and I was down to 115.6, the lowest weight
I have been in over a year. But I probably sabotaged that tonight since I ate
almost 3000 calories in one sitting just a little while ago. I am such an idiot
some times. Do I want to sabotage myself? I don’t know, maybe. My ex called me a
few days ago for the first time in months. I didn’t even know he had my phone
number. It pissed me off. I told him to never call me again and I hung up on
him. But still, it fucked me up. I told him, “Well, I hope YOU feel better,
because I don’t. You think you can just call me up and apologize and tell me
about your life and whatever, and I’m gonna be OK with that. Well, I’m not. I
was fine already and I planned to never talk to you again. So I hope YOU feel
better, because I don’t. I feel worse. I’m gonna go now. Don’t ever call me
again.” And then I hung up. It felt scary to officially and finally take my
power back, but it felt good, too. He knew I meant it. He didn’t call again.
That was it—he knew I was serious. He knew I meant it when I said “never call me
again.” And he knew I meant it because it’s the truth. I never for the rest of
my life have any need or desire to talk to that asshole ever again. He’s put me
and HAM and our relationship through hell and he has absolutely nothing to offer. I
don’t need him to write my memoir. All I need is MY story, MY memories—not his.
If he wants to write a memoir, then he can go right ahead, but this one is mine
and I know enough about him and the rest of the losers of my past to write my
story, I want to call is something like, “My Life Through You”, or “Chameleon:
  The Story of the Girl Who Changed for Him”, or “UFO: Unidentified Female Object”.
Maybe the last one is best. I’d like to keep my misery lighthearted. Seriously,
  though, if you can’t laugh at your own life, you have no business laughing at
  anyone else. And, sorry, but that just won’t work for me. I need to laugh at
  all of us—we’re all fools. Even the smart ones.

I have too many fat days, ugly days, low self-esteem days, I usually call them. I have fine hair that grows around my upper lip and chin, as do most girls (even the really hot ones) and I used to go to the greatest wax girl ever, but then she got pregnant and decided to take a six month maternity leave. Didn't she think about how this would affect me? Well, anyway, when she took leave, so did I. Once you develop a relationship with a waxer, you really don't want to start all over again. So I have been fending for myself for the last few months, using tweezers here and there, occasionally browsing the websites of local spas, but never making an appointment. Well, the hot girl from the gym, EP, invited us to a barbeque, so I decided I had to do something more thorough. When the sun shines on a unwaxed face and you catch it in just the right light, it's frightening. I didn't want to be that girl, especially around a hottie and all her stupid hot friends. So I used this cheapo wax from the drugstore, and it looked great at first, but a few days later (we never made it to the barbeque by the way), my skin developed a reaction to it. So now I havebig, red, painful bumps on the sides of my mouth. I've already been feeling bloated and fat lately, and now on top of the poor body image, my face is all fucked up. Makeup just makes it look even more ridiculous. I sometimes feel like I missed the day they taught hot girl grooming 101. For years I was unaware that hair grows on top of your toes, above your lip, on your chin, and down the center of your belly from your navel to the area where it is obvious that hair grows (and I didn't know that people groomed that region either). I didn't know I was supposed to shave those areas or have them waxed, and even if I had known, I wouldn't have known who to turn to. I didn't know that I shouldn't bite my nails, or chew the skin around my nails, I didn't know that box hair dye from the grocery store would turn my hair orange or green, depending on it's base. I didn't know what size bra I was, I didn't know that glitter and dark roots made me look cheap. I didn't know how to look good. And now that I know how I'm supposed to look, I don't know how to achieve the desired result. I work out five days a week, sometimes twice a day. I spend inordinate amounts of money on my hair and nails, and I used to spend it on waxing too. I am constantly buying new foundations and eyeliners, mascaras and face masks, trying to get the skin I want, the hair I want, the nails I want, the body I want, the face I want, the youth I wish I could recapture. And that's the worst part of all: even if I achieve the beauty results that I'm always desperately chasing, youth trumps maintenance every time. When I had hair on my toes, dark roots, glitter spread all over my chest, an ill-fitting bra, a half-shirt, bell-bottoms and bare feet, I had one major thing working in my favor. I was young. I was hot because I was young. It just doesn't take as much work when your young. Throw on whatever, you don't need makeup or fancy clothes or a waxed upper lip or a mani/pedi, all you need is your fresh little face and your perky little tits, and a spark in your naive little eyes. The older we women get, the more we try to recapture that effortlessness, but it takes so much damn effort! It's so expensive and time-consuming to look as if "Oh, I just threw this on. I didn't even have time to do my makeup this morning." Skin gets rougher and starts to droop, fine lines creep around the corners of your eyes, a slight wrinkle appears in the center of the forehead, and veins, you know, the ones your mother has, start prutruding from your hands. Time cannot be turned back. It's just one more instance of accepting the current situation. I can't get younger, so I have to work with what I have. Learn how to manage my fading beauty. Learn how to accept that it's someone else's turn in the spotlight, but the spotlight will fade on those girls as well. As we fade, the spotlight fades. It sucks not being the hottest girl in the room. Now the hottest girl in the room is EP. She's 22.