"Life is Divided Up Into the Horrible and the Miserable."

Extremely Early This Morning, The Horrible:

Major depression is slowly saluting me adieu and marching away in favor of a bit of highly distracting hypomania, which, thank God, is going to be really fucking useful in the next few days, in order for me to complete all of my class work. It's 4:00 am at present, having been awakened at 2:30 am, after a good 5 hours of sleep since about 9:30-10:00 pm last night. I've swallowed an extra half Ambien and a low dose of my no-more-heart-thumping medication, and have been sipping some sleepy time herbal tea. Just about ready to hit the hay again & may adjust the Pandora stream to play more ambient white noise than ELO, but hey, a girl's gonna groove if a girl's gonna groove, and I mean Jeff Lynne no disrespect.

Yes, I'm the dorky middle-ager wearing zip up footie pajamas with hearts all over them. They're fleece. Yes, I probably have bed-head, but my hair style, if you can call it one, IS bed head, which simplifies things. Yes, my blankie and stuffed animals are waiting for me to get back IN bed, a twin bed. Am I digressively juvenile? Oh my, yes. Do I care? Not really. Maybe it's the fact that I don't care that's my problem. What I think separates me from everyone else separates me so far away from the air traffic control bleeps that I appear as an unidentified flying object. 

It's beyond my reasoning why SO MANY men in this world find the type of woman below totally hot, while I can't get past the friend zone of literally any almost-boyfriend I might encounter, regardless of the guy, or Guy, unless someone's been drinking. Straight up. This chick probably has guys beating down her door, never mind that my impression of her is subjectively heinous. 

Is that chick one of the Kardashian people?

I've deduced, after years of scrutinizing, that it's got to be my looks. Honestly. I could stand in front of a cold 3-way mirror in the ill-lit bathroom and snap out gray hair, extract blackheads, measure my waist, and obsess over why people think my fingers are inhumanly too long for hours. Give me enough dope and I might see Medusa, which'd be freaky.

And I'd still feel like crap.

Maybe it's all in the lighting. Maybe we should replace all the bulbs in the house (and in the car, and in restaurants, and in streetlights) with something softer, less harsh, less glaring. Really, is anyone in a "red light district" just too ugly? (I jest.) (Maybelline operates in the black. Apathy? In the red.)

I don't understand. I'm reasonably funny (It's either a symptom of mental illness or ego masturbation to tick mark every occasion throughout the day during which I'm laughing to myself.). I'm extremely bright. I'm a musician, and a writer, and a blooming psychologist, and a square peg. I have a photographic memory. I am kind, loyal and affectionately dedicated unless you happen to royally piss me off; in which case, I spit fire and can kill you with words alone, or unleash you onto Luke The Brute, as a last resort, though Guy inflates my toughness to surpass "99.9% of the world." I've said before, I'm the crying on the inside kind. All part of the show, kids, all part of the show. Broken record...I just talked about "Brave Face Syndrome."

But I think I need to be put in my place and reminded that "beggars can't be choosers." And, I guess, invest in fake eyelashes. Guy doesn't lust after me. BMF is in his own little micro-universe with a leggy brunette missus, but bless his heart. BMF's BFF lusts after everyone. My last boyfriend was more into fake women online, really icky porn and collegiate teenagers than he was into me and went to great effort to transform me into his ideal despite my efforts at autonomy an an overt disdain for polo shirts. My husband didn't find me attractive whatsoever because again, I didn't fit into a form, shape and texture imprinted inside his own brain that wanted me for me. (That's a really long, embarrassing story.)  I read recently, actually, about the phenomenon of "sexsomnia," during which you have sex in your sleep. While I thought the creation of my child was a well-planned-out foray into building a family that required a little gettin-down & dirty, hindsight indicates more that one or both of us were totally unconscious most of the time we were trying to conceive a baby, which was arduous, clinically maneuvered and had already failed once. (I was no Fertile Myrtle. I bought ovulation predictor kits from eBay in gross quantities. My ex is the one with a smidge of Irish blood, not me.)

Self-portraits are weird but THE thing to do right now, especially in social media. But, akin to my deeply ingrained self-loathing, I perpetually cover up something. Some flaw. I don't fake bake. I don't wear a lot of makeup, if any. I have a crooked smile. I'm getting wrinkles. I still break out. If I look at most self portraits I've taken, I'm covering something up. Well, duh!

I liked the way the sunshine crisscrossed lines all through the frame like I was being "X"'d out. That crinkle above my eyes was impossible to hide in my expression, though I tried. It really wasn't that the sun was too bright--I think I've frowned my way to permanence. That's my favorite part of the picture, because it reminds me of the Harry Burns film character who loves the Sally Albright film character so much that he points out that not only does she get cold when it's 71 degrees out and takes an hour and a half to order a sandwich, but also, she gets a "little crinkle above her nose when she's looking at him like he's nuts." I resemble those remarks.

When I was working, one subset of earthlings I did not tolerate, and never could stomach, were pharmaceutical reps, who sell drugs to doctors. I find them vapid, pushy, superficial, banal, insipid, and it seems the prettier they are, the easier it is for them to peddle the latest dope. Always unnerving was their appearance on Lunch Thursdays, during which they'd order lunch in (which I didn't usually eat, especially when I was on my all-baby-food diet for like 4 months a couple years ago) and seduce the doctors (sort of). They're like drug hookers. Before they had a chance to meet with Guy, I'd swing over to the office across the hall, check them out and decide how jealous and snarky I was going to behave towards them, and if it seemed like Guy liked them, I'd make their visit as miserable as possible. ("Whoops! You've been waiting to sell your drug to the doctors for 3 hours and now they've finished their cases and left for the hospital? My bad! I totally forgot I'd plopped you into this empty room!") Guy's an incurable charmer--he'd often invite them to his office (when he had one) for a chit-chat over lunch. Only now do I realize that they were all in high heels, an ideal I can't physically live up to, which Guy apparently likes, and 90% of them had long hair, which I don't. (Neither does Lady GuyGuy, but her hair's a trainwrecktastic don't.) 

I can die at least knowing I eventually bred well....a handsome, curly-haired, sparkling, matching-green-eyed bruiser with brilliance and an IQ a few digits surpassing my own, destined for greatness. I envision him being a Rhodes Scholar, but my punkish impetus is to tell Luke to relinquish such a mainstream honor in much the same way John Lennon gave the Queen back his M.B.E., somewhere in between smoking reefer and conquering the planet in the name of peace.

I'm getting drowsy again, so jumping back into bed for another round of passion...clutching my stuffed animals for dear life, listening to some 25 minute long waterfall or something.

Zzzzzz. Duckface!

I proceeded to sleep until 10:48 ACT, Annie Clock Time, which means it was really 10:28 am. Rested but ornery. Still in the footed fleece, I took off my glasses and looked at myself in the mirror. I'm a big believer in the "If you rub your eyes enough, you'll look better the next time you open them." Instead, my fingers lingered with trickles of soft, disjointed lashes and my perception is that I look kind of like this:

YouTube is dodgy sometimes, and while an 8-year old can master it effortlessly, those of us who are....mature...navigate more flailingly. Simply for the audio background entertainment, I'd been looping my 948 "favorite" videos while I've been working. It didn't occur to me that if *I* had them on continuous play, and shared clips, the clips in my blog would endlessly loop as well. That said, after the doleful songs, these clips I had saved from Woody Allen's masterpiece, "Annie Hall," were playing, and apparently, Guy, being probably the only huge Woody Allen fan with whom I've never watched a Woody Allen film in the same room, watched them. They all kind of centered around Allen's character, Alvy, breaking up with Diane Keaton's Annie. Truly, I didn't intend to twist a knife any deeper into anybody at all, but I explained to Guy on Friday that Allen's kind of like my psychological twin, except he's totally Freudian and I'm more existential, which will be explained at greater length further in this entry.

The last blog I wrote, the Sorrowful Pathetic Brokenhearted Vulnerable Inadequate Rueful Piteous Paltry (but tender) Ode to Guy Friend, featured a number of YouTube clips aimed directly at his heart, and the other day, he mentioned that he'd read the blog, felt undeserving (as if the other 249 blogs with him at the epicenter, including "Meet the Press"-worthy, lengthy commentary, had brushed under the rug), and "enjoyed the videos." My intent wasn't particularly for him to enjoy, per se, but to thump what's left of my emotions like riding a car on a totally deflated, rotating tire. 

Guy assumed, reading that blog, that I was angry with him, when I honestly wasn't. To go back and read it, my impression of that blog is that it doesn't come across as violently bitter. It's just sad. He wanted to include me in the petition of women who wanted to castrate him, as he'd had a bad, snapping, icky day of negative interactions with the estrogen-laden office staff. (I could write a dissertation on the power dynamic of having 4 male doctors and an entirely female subservient support staff, or how degrading it is to refer to all of them as "girls," but my plate's kind of full.) 

Thankfully, I was never partied to his evil wrath working together, because it seemed that no matter how badly I fucked up his instructions or work, I sneaked by unscathed, or would counteract his venom with something wittier and more charming that made ME impossible for HIM out on whom to lash. I reassured him that I, for one, was *not* at all mad, and that he needs to kiss some serious behind to get back in their good graces. Should be a no-brainer, given next week is Administrative Professionals Day, formerly Secretaries Day, but was too sexist and archaic. Kind of like the--gasp--men's and women's bathrooms at school which are now gender neutral, which makes me wonder if dudes are stealing all of the freely supplied female sanitary supplies on the counter, not even considering the occasional stereotypical pink paper hand towels. 

(PS, I didn't get upset with Guy again until tonight, when I was busy writing and he had a minor cow (so, a calf) over me not taking his (highly anticipated?) phone call at his convenience. I told him I was writing and asked if he could a) text me or b) leave me a voicemail. When I asked for clarification regarding something about his baby brother being superficial, (who I tease him about me pursuing, when I guess the fella's kind of a douche), Guy suddenly didn't have "an hour" to talk to me on the phone, had to pack and leave early in the morning for California for a week, I can only assume with the missus, for some type of hugely romantic Boomer Guy Birthday Coming Up Escapade. It may come as a shock to all of my readers, but on occasion, I'm actually BUSY.)

Whenever I finish this entry tonight, I need to radically shift gears and work on psych papers, having extrapolated every ounce of milk drips from the udders of the ADA dictates on "reasonable accommodation" for the mentally-all-not-together-with-things. Mania? Pretty good. Racing, scattered thoughts? Not so good. Concentration level? Zip. This kind of writing, that you're reading now? Easier than cracking a hard boiled egg on your forehead but still difficult to peel without crumbling to 1,000 pieces. (PPS, the yolks only turn green when you overcook the eggs...) The mania pulled its pants down, sat on the ice and slid down a giant hill back to depression, crashing head-on into a mighty sequoia.

Later This Afternoon, The Miserable:

Friday, I'm arguing with my counselor, telling her I didn't think cognitive behavioral therapy would be effective in tackling and resolving my issues at present, and she wants to try dialectical behavioral therapy, which I naturally poo poo, because it's not like I'm repudiating cooperation in session, I mean, what the fuck? Plus, there's the whole "I'm-going-to-get-in-trouble-again-because-we-touch-on-Buddhism" factor, which makes me feel guilty at church. (Guilty Protestants aren't as guilty as guilty Catholics, inasmuch as at least we still sleep around.)

She had arrived at the session 15 minutes late, at 9:15. I'd been waiting since 9:00. Common courtesy, at least as I'm being trained, is to grant the client the duration of the 50-60 min session regardless if it fucks up the rest of the therapist's schedule because arriving late was her own damn fault. What's worse? SHE had clinical paperwork to do about me. As I'm also being trained, the counselor does the paperwork either before or after the session, not WHILE the client is sitting there, finger-tapping, sipping water and reminding her to put her letterhead in the printed side-up this time, because she's a little computer-challenged. 

After the DBT mashup, I decided I want to engage the next several sessions in more existential discourse. That's when SHE poo pooed & crabbed that it was too intellectual and off-path for the decision makers within Medicaid to approve as a treatment plan, and asked me what life & death and the here & now had to do with anything related to my stressors. (It seemed too snippy to say, "I'm trying, right now, sitting here, to not die.") I was promptly shooed out at 10:00 am, her clinical paperwork still incomplete, after she twiddled through her calendar in order to make my next appointment, which isn't until the day after I turn 41 years old, which brings the whole thing back to existentialism, which probably confused her further.

Ambien's digesting, the last smoke of the night, the coffee-readying for the morning, and the hug goodnight from my sparring spawn. 

It's my looks, I'm telling you.