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.
Thank you for welcoming me back to the blogosphere