Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Is 'Hot Mess' Available on Blogspot?

Today I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. He was the one who officially diagnosed me as bipolar a year and a half ago when I was wiiiiiildly manic and swore I was a messenger of God (hey if you listen to my side, it made complete sense at the time (which is a book I plan on writing one day soon-ish)). He was also the one to tell me I was an alcoholic and needed to cut way the hell back. Which I did. But.

The first thing Psychiatrist asked me when I sat down was how my drinking is going. I paused. That pause fucked me for the rest of the session. My drinking? Four glasses a night. Yes, that is the scaled back amount. I used to drink ten glasses of wine a night. That’s two and a half bottles. In five hours. But a glass every half hour doesn’t sound that bad, does it? Yeah, well. Still an alcoholic, albeit one with newly learned self-control.

On that note, l still have the breathalyzer my parents put on my car to keep me from getting a DWI. At the time I was furious, but now—now I get it.

As Psychiatrist’s Eyes of Judgment bore holes into my soul, I caved and told him that recently several people in my life (Dear Ol’ Dad, Bestie, and Supervisor semi-jokingly) have said I should get a therapist.

I thought the fucker was going to cartwheel and live-Tweet right there. Jackass.

He talked about my undeniable need for therapy even more than he talked about my drinking problem. I clutched onto my Kate Spade purse to keep from punching him. And by “punching him,” I mean crying uncontrollably.

I am so sick of crying. I am sick of my life sucking. I am sick of being the only single girl at the party. I am sick of Texas.

That’s why I’m leaving. This spring, my townhouse complex is being demolished for a bright shiny new skyscraper, so I figured if I’m moving, I might as well move somewhere I want to actually be: Portland, Oregon.

As Psychiatrist was rather fond of saying, change of geography doesn’t mean my problems won’t follow me and oh yeah since he hadn’t mentioned it in two minutes, I REALLY NEED THERAPY.


It wasn’t so much that Psychiatrist was forcing Ugly Truths into my face (I already see them stamped on my forehead, a big scarlet HM for “hot mess”), it’s that he did so in a way that really made me feel like I really am the disaster I see in my bathroom mirror every morning. Someone who is a waste of potential, a failure in spite of all the privileges and opportunities she was given, a bad investment. And by investment, I’m alluding to the quarter of a million dollars my parents so mistakenly paid for me to receive eighteen years of the best private education available. So I could be barely-employed for four years then suck at a job I hate at a B-level company I don’t respect that should have fired me ages ago for a number of offenses.

My parents placed their bets on the wrong horse. Not that it mattered, because my little brother is literally a rocket scientist and he climbs mountains in Nepal and shit. Despite the five and a half year age gap, he surpassed me so long ago that it’s embarrassing. Oh and did I mention I lost my house in foreclosure? My parents bought it, but still. When I leave this house I’m leaving with zero dollars in my back pocket from it. Back to the land of apartments and pet deposits for me, just like when I was 25.

When Psychiatrist was talking about my drinking problem with clear disdain, I wanted to throw a full glass of wine at his stupid fat head and scream I USED TO DRINK HALF A FUCKING BOTTLE OF TEQUILA A DAY ON A SLOW DAY. THIS IS *HUGE* PROGRESS, FUCKHOLE and then gouge his brain out through his nostrils.

Hi, world. My name is Vix and I’m a big fat hot mess. Literally big: I’m about fifty pounds overweight. I’m nearing 34 and I can barely take care of myself or sustain a job. Also I’m a bipolar drunk and I secretly still think I’m a messenger of God but now at least I know better than to talk about it. Love meeeeee!

--punch-cry and pours another glass of wine--

So what am I going to do about it.

First off, leave. I need a fresh start in a new city. I want a new job, new apartment, new dating pool, new bookstore to lose myself in, and new weather to bitch about on bad days. Hell, I want to be gone already.

Yes, I know that moving to Portland won’t fix any of my existing problems, but at least I’d feel like I was starting to put down roots in a place I actually plan on living in for the next twenty years. That’s right, one day, I want to fall in love and marry a nice non-hipster man. Many days after that, I want to have a couple of his non-hipster babies. I want to be happy, damnit. I want the white picket fence and obnoxiously cute Christmas cards we send out every year of all of us in hideous matching Christmas sweaters.

--If only I can fix my life. I have to do that first to get to the mostly happily ever after part.

These days, the only thing that keeps me from manic-raging—other than an anti-psychotic medication called Geodon—is writing. I take classes at Litreactor.com and they keep me sane. I take notes for my fantasy book and it keeps me from crying for hours. I read a book on the craft of writing and I can look my psychiatrist in the face without punching it into a disgusting pulp.

Why do you think I started blogging again, today of all days? So I don’t spend the next two days curled up in bed sobbing because I hate my life so much, upper middle class white privilege be damned.

The worst part was that I didn’t cry during the session like Old Vix would have. Instead I blinked at him. None of this is new information. After all, I conceded defeat long ago. I thought that was obvious from the fact that I hate my life. Why did he have to rough me up all over again?

But you know what? I haven’t lost hope in getting my happy ending. I have three book projects to work on. And do you know what I did last week? I ordered a Wonder Woman diaper bag from thinkgeek.com. No I’m not pregnant; but I have faith that one day I will have a husband I love and a child I had on purpose, and that child will have a red cape for a burp cloth, because that’s the kind of mom I am.

One day.

Thank you for welcoming me back to the blogosphere
xoxo Vix


  1. Welcome back, Vix! I hope you can beat back your demons. Physical exercise might help. You just have to find one that you can tolerate or at least endure. I'm pulling for you!

  2. Welcome back Vix. I think we were hoping to see a Vix that had got rid of her problems, but it looks as that's still in the future. Keep on blogging. It's a great way of getting shit out of the system. Hope you settle down in Portland, it should be really dufferent frrom Texas. Keep it up and go for it. It's not easy but it can be done. And don't believe the shrinks too much. It's you - not them.

  3. Glad you're back, I missed reading your blog!

  4. Welcome back!! I've *missed* you!! And I'm really sorry to hear of all the shit you've been wading through. I've been trained in psychotherapy, so I have something of a clue. I used to have a poster of a Raggedy Ann doll that was halfway through an old-time laundry wringer that said, "The truth will set you free, but first, it will make you miserable." However, I thought it was a cruel joke played on the world when I discovered that insight is not the same as change. I hope you hang in there, girl, and take the best possible care of yourself for the entire journey!

    The alcohol is doing you one favor: clearing away whatever inhibitions there are to getting your authentic writing voice onto the page. I'm just hoping your psychiatrist can help you figure out a less damaging way to directly accomplish the same goal. It sounds a little like the process of a beginning actor developing the courage and depth of self-knowledge to be 100% authentic on stage in front of all those people.

    I hope Portland works out for you every bit as well as you hope. When you mentioned "bookstore," I *immediately* thought, "Powell's!" I think you'll be pleasantly amazed, if you don't already know about them.

    I was at Rice last year for a Space Science Department 50th anniversary reunion, and thought about you every day I was in town, wondering how you were. I am *so* glad to finally have that answer! Thank you for coming back to us!


    Sunnyvale, CA
    Rice BA '72