So today I did the annual gyno exam, which is generally annoying as fuck. I really don't appreciate anyone touching my vagina if it doesn't end in orgasm.
Got put on a birth control pill so I can be a fatter, moodier, assholier asshole. ("What's the Lamictal for?" "It's for Crazy, so make sure I get Pill Lite so we don't make that worse.")
Then went downstairs in the same building to an on-site lab -- SUPER convenient, but the lab is more free about being part of a Jesus-y hospital system. So there are crosses on the walls, presumably so I can pray to Jesus to forgive me for fucking, and also pray while the lady jacks four vials of my blood to make sure my vagina doesn't have any biblical plagues.
This better be the best goddamn sex I've ever had.
The bitch of it? He's starting to annoy me so I don't think that's even going to happen. But these are all good things to have done in general.
Still, fuck everything. I am dizzy, and getting tacos on my way home. Hmph.
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist -- it takes a village, y'all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I "get used to being alone."
Um... How 'bout "Shut up and give me my drugs?" You're not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You're shrinks. Shouldn't I be OK being alone? Shouldn't I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
"Well, you can just date casually. You don't have to sleep with them."
Well, no, I don't HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the "on" switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best "lady" decorum, and then suddenly we're post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I'm hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don't feel like dating right now. I'm not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it's supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that's not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I'm pretty rad. That's how I'll know when I'm ready to deal with a relationship -- if I wouldn't rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it's "UGH, I have to...TALK to someone? And...shave things? This will not stand!"
*sigh*
On one hand, I don't think it's fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that's actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don't. Also, I do understand it's not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn't want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I'm not going to meet anyone in a bar, that's not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble -- instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here's to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows -- FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
Eh. I don't know. Do you have the spring boyfriends in yet? I'm slightly crazier in the winter, plus there's all that driving and family time and spending money on gifts and meals between now and Valentine's.
My dating representative -- Public Consumption Smug -- is currently busy hermiting under a mountain of blankets. The only way I'd be down for "Netflix and chill" is in the literal sense -- I have popcorn and bourbon cider, you bring the movie. I will wear my finest pajamas and will even locate MATCHING fuzzy socks.
This is my game at this point, y'all.
Joking aside, were there a man on this couch, I'm pretty sure I could summon the energy to have ill-advised sex with him, assuming he could get it up on spec for the presumptive bounty lurking beneath the Temple hoodie and yoga pants. #SexyAndIKnowIt
I love the implication that it's just THAT easy to get me a new person who'll deal with me, and me with him, long enough to get to "boyfriend." See, what you have here, Hinge, is applicants for the "seasonal help wanted" sign on my vagina. That's not a boyfriend, sweetie, that's a temp -- he'd be filling an opening. Like at the Gap (heh). Stop trying to make it all rom-com.
So, the therapy posts aren't going over well, which is fine, it's a little bit weird. But I wanted to share this, which was kind of an "up day" breakthrough. Plus, it's Mental Health Awareness Week, and I think it's important obviously to #endthestigma, but also...It's not CRAZY. I joke that it is, and I shouldn't, because it's not. Some of us just need a minder. And this particular thing is something I think a lot of women struggle with.
This is from my actual, personal journal, where I write about each therapy session right after, so I remember what we talked about and what I'm supposed to be doing, and sometimes it spurs thoughts about certain things, and sometimes it's just nice to get it all out of my skull. So I wrote this the other day, which was a down day, after she and I had talked about my romantic history (Ex-Box, That Guy, Idiot Boys I Dated):
"When I met That Guy, I FELT stuff: good, bad, but never dispassionate. Never like I was just...THERE. I felt strong, smart, sexy, like I was a good writer, funny, pretty, good at the limited intimate things we did, etc. And when that went sour, it went REALLY sour -- I don't know if I've ever been angry like that. I know that's because I was hurt. But I think that's why it's been really hard for me to let him go is that I didn't know I could be like that -- confident, sexy, bold, horny, angry... He woke things up in me I didn't know I had. And yes, theoretically now I know I HAVE them, so it's on me to go GET them, but CHRIST, it was so easy and just thrilling having him do it. But his rejection in not wanting to be with me, or even friends in the way I'd like ...what if I was wrong about all that stuff? What if I'm not those things?"
But then I started thinking about it more logically, and...fuck THAT. That is a version of myself I had, and I will find it again FOR myself. It's part of why I started this blog in the first place, so my id had an outlet.
"I’m fucking done with sadness, and I don’t know what’s up the ass of the universe lately but I’ve HAD IT. I AM GOING TO BE FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE. Can you hear that? That’s me smiling, y’all. I’m smiling so loud you can fucking hear it. I’m going to destroy the goddamn universe with my irrational joy and I will spew forth pictures of clumsy kittens and baby puppies adopted by raccoons and MOTHERFUCKING NEWBORN LLAMAS DIPPED IN GLITTER AND THE BLOOD OF SEXY VAMPIRES AND IT’S GOING TO BE AWESOME."
Also the Caitlin Moran talk I attended a few months ago, where she basically said, "Decide what you want to be, and BE it, even if that means faking it until you make it." This is a mood I get in a lot, but I'm really trying to harness it so it's my default.
So this morning I put on a dress and heels and some red lipstick and whipped my bitch-ass brain into compliance. I don't have time for this shit. I have Awesome to be.
