A Little Something Like Human
When I used to go to therapy, my therapist refused to give me any kind of diagnosis other than the ones I already got from WebMD. I wonder now if maybe she didn't have any idea what is wrong with me, because lawd knows I don't. I can be out with friends, living my life to the best I know how, and drive home wishing a semi could take me out and then no one would have to hate me for not being around anymore.
Now, those thoughts are less now that I'm hopped up on a million milligrams of Effexor. But I am indeed a "why" person. Like, why am I never grateful I woke up? Why don't I look at the sun and feel blessed to see such light? Why doesn't rain make me feel clean? Why do I hate every part of my flesh that has a spot on it ... a stretch mark ... a clump of cottage-cheese-makin-jelly cellulite? Why do I hate my natural hair? My wonky eyebrow? My crooked nose? Why do I only like to look at my eyes in the mirror? I can't be a disembodied eye ball in space, so come the fuck on already.
I remember the first time I watched Funny Lady. I cried. Full-bodied tears. Because I am not the girl who gets told she's fit to be pretty in a play. I'm not the girl that someone wants to take pictures of or with. I am the one who makes jokes to make myself feel less like I NEED to be beautiful around people who don't understand me. I use humour like a badge of courage ... like a mask at the ball ... like an invisibility cloak. You laughed at my words, you didn't see the "tears of the clown" and you stopped calling me ugly ... stopped telling me no "man" would ever want me, which proved true in my 30's when I just gave up on everyone. Barbara Streisand in that movie KNEW me. How hard it is to be the "ugly" girl expected to be "pretty."
I don't know if knowing a diagnosis would guide me anywhere but down, but I certainly would like to feel something that doesn't so closely resemble failure as a woman. I know I'm smart. I know I'm strong. But bitches, I'm tired. I want a vacation, an interior decorator for my apartment, and a personal trainer that I can pay with my ability to make others laugh and smile/laugh. But I wanna keep these titties, cuz ya girl don't know how to do anything with them but she's pretty damned used to them.
[no vodkas were hurt in the making of this blog]
Now, those thoughts are less now that I'm hopped up on a million milligrams of Effexor. But I am indeed a "why" person. Like, why am I never grateful I woke up? Why don't I look at the sun and feel blessed to see such light? Why doesn't rain make me feel clean? Why do I hate every part of my flesh that has a spot on it ... a stretch mark ... a clump of cottage-cheese-makin-jelly cellulite? Why do I hate my natural hair? My wonky eyebrow? My crooked nose? Why do I only like to look at my eyes in the mirror? I can't be a disembodied eye ball in space, so come the fuck on already.
I remember the first time I watched Funny Lady. I cried. Full-bodied tears. Because I am not the girl who gets told she's fit to be pretty in a play. I'm not the girl that someone wants to take pictures of or with. I am the one who makes jokes to make myself feel less like I NEED to be beautiful around people who don't understand me. I use humour like a badge of courage ... like a mask at the ball ... like an invisibility cloak. You laughed at my words, you didn't see the "tears of the clown" and you stopped calling me ugly ... stopped telling me no "man" would ever want me, which proved true in my 30's when I just gave up on everyone. Barbara Streisand in that movie KNEW me. How hard it is to be the "ugly" girl expected to be "pretty."
I don't know if knowing a diagnosis would guide me anywhere but down, but I certainly would like to feel something that doesn't so closely resemble failure as a woman. I know I'm smart. I know I'm strong. But bitches, I'm tired. I want a vacation, an interior decorator for my apartment, and a personal trainer that I can pay with my ability to make others laugh and smile/laugh. But I wanna keep these titties, cuz ya girl don't know how to do anything with them but she's pretty damned used to them.
[no vodkas were hurt in the making of this blog]
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