This was supposed to be published on October 3rd, but it wasn’t because this week I had a stomach issue and nothing is more humbling than vomiting and diarrhea. I spent all of Monday in the E.R. and regretted spending $150 to be pumped full of saline solution and sent off with the farewell phrase, “mental illness is tough, hang in there.” I’d woken up that morning feeling disoriented with a racing, pounding pulse and convinced myself my heart was giving out from dehydration. Blood tests later revealed that I was not dehydrated, just freaked out. So, I didn’t write at all earlier this week because diarrhea gave me a panic attack. I hadn’t given in to the urge to go to the E.R. since April, so I figured it was time to treat myself to a visit. To the credit of this particular E.R., they were very nice and let me lie down for 45 minutes in a remote controlled bed, which had a calming effect. Not a total loss.
In other news, I made the mistake of joining a popular barre studio, which—if I were budgeting and managing my finances responsibly with long-term goals in mind, I would not have done—but I both love and hate myself too much to live within my own means. As a fitness concept, barre is definitely fake, but it does give me a sense of structure with exercise that I appreciate. Unfortunately, it’s absolutely a cult, and not in a fun way because everyone there hates me for only taking one class a week and frequently forgetting to bring sticky socks. So it’s a cult with no friends and no immediate exit strategy (I’m not allowed to cancel my membership for another two months ‘without penalties’). I suppose at the very least, I’ll have a pelvic floor trained to put a person in a chokehold and maybe pee in my pants less. After what has felt like 1,000 classes, I was recently informed that I’d completed 10, and my photo was taken without my consent.
Onto more joyful notes, here’s what I’ve consumed, talked about, and generally loved doing this past week or so:
Upon Nia’s spot-on recommendation, the Jane Fonda documentary: Jane Fonda in Five Acts. I think it’s fairly well-known that Jane Fonda was bulimic for decades. She’s always been quite candid about it, and I appreciate that. I appreciate her candidness generally, and I also enjoyed learning more about her activism and her three marriages. I’ve always known she’s an icon and that we have a lot in common (bulimia) but I wasn’t expecting to resonate with basically everything she says—especially about plastic surgery:
“On one level, I hate the fact that I've had the need to alter myself physically to feel that I'm OK…I wish I wasn't like that. I love older faces. I love lived-in faces. I loved Vanessa Redgrave's face. I wish I was braver. But I am what I am.”
The “I wish I was braver” part really gets to me, because I wish I was braver too and it reminds me how painful society wants life to be for people who won’t comply with prescribed beauty standards. It’s not really fair to expect anyone to be brave when it feels like the punishment for not complying is so ominous. Self-hate is the worst version of this. I feel stressed out about my nasolabial folds every single day—I am convinced they make me ugly and this makes me anticipate punishment, real or imagined. I feel I should be proactively figuring out a solution to make them go away, or I’ll suffer some profound consequence. The quickest, easiest solution to this pain would be to make them disappear, and if I had the guaranteed means to do so, I would. I am not brave! I’d rather have the anonymous ease of Instagram face than embrace my unique characteristics. I’m aware of how tragic this is, but it doesn’t change anything. I do believe it’s possible to transcend self-hate with radical self-acceptance—and that when this happens true love simply engulfs you—but I haven’t gotten there yet. I’d still rather have the shortcut.
Going to Guitar Center to get attention from men. I’ve actually only been there one time so far, and it changed my entire mood. A man there fixed my guitar for free, an interaction which was vastly more beneficial than even some of my more meaningful romantic encounters. Even though I moved here to get away from men, I still want attention from them. I had to block this guy I met on Bumble for detailing how badly he wanted to impregnate AOC, and that was a huge let-down. I think he also went on a hot air balloon date with someone else. Men are unequivocally disappointing, but getting attention from them still makes me happy. I once again realized that most of the time it’s not partnership I am seeking, or even sex, it’s just attention. So I deleted Bumble, just like I deleted all the other apps, and now I just go to Guitar Center.
A new lip-inflating device, sans needles! On Saturday, before I had d*arrhea, I had dinner with a couple ladies from the eating disorder support group I’ve been going to. They are both stunning women in their 70’s and we had a thrilling conversation about beauty. I was lamenting over whether to get lip fillers or not, and they both advised me not to. “But,” said one, “I did find this on Instagram.” And she showed me Juvalip, which appears to be a device that suctions your lips so hard it creates a filler-like effect. My first question was, how long do results last? According to the website, results last for “hours”. It looks terrifying to use—I’m a little scared it would suction my lips all the way off. But the results honestly look promising, so I might buy one. The real lesson here is to make a habit of having sit-down conversations with women who are decades older than you. So far most of my best friends in Texas are all my mom’s age or older, including Robert’s mom.
Bookstores. I want to spend more lingering afternoons in bookstores. On Sunday my friend Caroline and I went to Talking Animals Books, and I was reminded how wholesome it feels not only to invest in a really heavy, brand-new hardcover book but also just to hang out with girlfriends in bookstores. In high school, Caroline and I, and our friend Chelsea, would regularly meet up at the eponymous teen hangout, Barnes & Noble. We’d spend hours grazing the literary fiction aisle or huddling up at the kids’ table to talk and/or cry about whatever was going on in our lives. We went to all the Harry Potter releases at midnight. We drank hot chocolate from Starbucks on the floor and took turns listening to Regina Spektor in the music section, when it still existed. I really miss those times! Anyway, I bought the new Barbara Kingsolver book, Demon Copperhead, and it’s good. It feels good to in a relationship with a book again and it felt good to be in a bookstore with one of my oldest, dearest friends.
Tomorrow, I’m going to the Texas State Fair, which will be psychosis-inducing but fun. Next week, I’m publishing a long-form post about rejection. See you then!