Friday, August 30, 2013

I’d Be More Confident if I Didn’t Suck So Much

(^^ and I don’t mean in the good way)

They say confidence is sexy… and arrogance makes you look like a repulsive, pig-faced whore. Okay maybe I made that last part up, but I only know a handful of people that manage to successfully straddle the line between self-assured and self-obsessed and they truly are the most charismatic people around. In other words: Fuck them. (This time I DO mean in the good way. What? It’s not my fault those cocksure cocksuckers are so damn irresistible.)

I, on the other hand, carry myself with all the confidence of a dung beetle whose kingdom of crap is always on the verge of collapse. If I ever had a single ounce of self-esteem, I certainly snorted it at some point during my high school years.

It doesn't help being greeted with SNOBS in every aspect of life. Some things haven’t changed a bit since high school, other than I at least ask the person in the next bathroom stall what it is I’m snorting before I vacuum it up with my face. Usually they tell me they don’t fucking know, since I brought it in with me. This isn't the 80s anymore, people. Or even good ole' 90s Beverly Hills 90210 Kelly Taylor shit. But I digress.

Yes, I know this is Donna and not Kelly. Sober Tori Spelling just makes a better mess than a coked-out Jenny Garth.

I've stuck my toes far enough into the shallow ends of both the writing and pin up modeling pools (weird combination, I know) to be surrounded by “peers” that are a million times better than me in their respective roles, and most make little attempt to hide their superiority. Either I’m a dick because I've never read an Indie writer or I’m an ugly slob because I can’t apply liquid eyeliner and have never graced a magazine cover… there’s always a reason to be treated like an infected wart on a platypus’s nutsack. Of course there have certainly been pleasant exceptions in both of the previously mentioned professions; hence the objects of my unwavering lust from the first paragraph.  And yes, I would hump ALL of their faces if given the opportunity, but the majority of the fucktards I've encountered I’d like to scratch in the damn eyes with my jagged, unmanicured fingernails.


Luckily, due to my own lack of effort my writing career seems to have finally hit its bathroom ceiling, so I won’t have to face the fallout of people finally realizing I’m an untalented shithead. But the part of myself I've always struggled the most to like is, well, myself. 

Modeling might seem like a stupid hobby for someone who can’t stand the way they look… wait, now I’m dumb too??? Christ. <Adds “lack of intelligence” to running scroll of her own faults. Along with “referring to self in third person.” Also “makes way too many lists.”> But there’s something about being prepped, pampered, and posed to look your best that is quite therapeutic. Until you look at yourself in the mirror again without all that professional help, but that’s a problem for another day. Most days, actually. But for a FEW minutes every few months I feel pretty… and that’s pretty awesome.

I’ve not peppered this post with pictures of myself because I don’t want a bunch of “Awww, but you’re so PRETTY” comments. If I wanted to go fishing, I’d be on a boat drinking beer and refusing to touch worms… which is a lot like what I’m doing now, except I’m on dry land. And I don’t really mind worms. Except for on spring mornings after it rains and those squirmy little pricks are laying dead everywhere, like slippery little landmines. And it always smells like sweat outside on those days, although I don't really think that's the worms' fault. Anyway, I'm just trying to write a little blog post here, so get the worms out of my fucking face, okay? Yeesh.

I’ve actually lost friends over my inability to take a compliment. I know my always-down-on-myself attitude is a drag. And all of the highest compliments in the world from others won’t do a damn thing to improve my image of myself, and its my own perception that is the problem. Obviously everyone else thinks I’m awesome. Pfffft.


A few months ago I set a goal for myself in an attempt to overcome some of my stupid insecurities: going fully nude for a photo shoot. I did it, and for a little while it actually did help. (And it was completely private and tastefully done, so sorry—even if the Google could find it for you it wouldn't add much fodder for your spank bank.) But I've long since sobered up and am back where I started… but you know what? I don’t care. I’m too old to be so self-conscious about every stupid thing.

My big crooked nose, small boobs, and weird bulges of arm pit fat are all parts of who I am. My bad puns and excessive use of alliteration are my style, however juvenile. And yeah, I totally rhymed “style” and “juvenile” on purpose, so cringe away motherfuckers. I’m not trying to kid myself that I’ll ever grace a bestsellers list or the pages of Vogue, but I’m no longer going to hide my face in public or lie and say I don’t want to be a successful writer. I’m also not going to attempt liquid eyeliner ever again. (Truthfully I've never tried it at all; it looks hard, and I’m insanely lazy with my appearance for someone who can’t stand how they naturally look.)

I am, however, going to hold my head high as I look in the mirror—as that’s the best angle from which to identify and pluck any weird growth of chin hair—and attempt to take pride in myself. Because no matter how ugly or talentless I may be, at least I still have a fabulous ass.





Sunday, August 11, 2013

Panic Disorders are Dumb.



I’ve received a lot of comments and private messages on my Facebook page that my openness about my own mental, um, “inefficiencies” actually serves to help others dealing with similar ailments.  It flatters, yet scares the semi-psychotic shit out of me, that anyone would look up to my dysfunctional ass. I mean, I’m not the best adjusted ballcock in the bowl. Seriously, look at me; I’m addicted to POOP PUNS. For fuck’s sake, my main goal in life is to become a shut-in cat lady.  While I realize that is an envy-invoking ambition, I’m not quite there yet.


After asking a few of these kindred spirits if they were out of their god damn minds (and obviously, they are), it turns out what draws fellow whackjobs to me is that I’m able to make fun of myself while dealing with the daily downer that is being bipolar with a side of panic disorder.

While I've discussed my depression a few times on this blog, other than little jabs at myself here and there I haven’t really delved into the drainpipe of despair that is living with uncontrollable anxiety. But I assure you, that doesn't mean I don’t find it hilarious.


I've been battling chronic anxiety for seven years. In that time I've lost a few jobs, a marriage, and my social life… so as you can see, there have certainly been some real benefits to the benzo life. Seriously, fuck all of those things. I've moved on to a better job and stronger marriage to lay waste upon, and if I really wanted to strap on my crazy boots and go out on the town, at least I don’t have to worry about appealing the desires of a bunch of fickle ass friends. I can get blackout drunk on my own time, and that freedom alone is worth its weight in tequila.

What? I'm having the time of my life.
Since coming down from my Klonopin withdrawal, anxiety has been kicking my ass like it’s a fucking snake on Samuel L. Jackson’s fucking plane.  I can only recall one day in the last four weeks where I didn't have a full blown panic attack. And while I know the few people that have stuck close to me mean well, there’s nothing more bitchslap worthy than the phrase, “Just relax.” Holy gee, I can’t believe I never thought of that!


It’s not that I’m actually scared of everything. In fact, I’m kind of a badass when my brain and body can cooperate. I don’t consciously kick myself into “fight or flight” mode, it just happens. While I've learned to recognize some situations that don’t agree with my personal level of dysfunction, most anxiety attacks are completely random. And the situations that do turn me into a hyperventilating fucktard are kind of unavoidable. Like, going to sleep at night.

You see, having an overactive imagination for all things catastrophic causes my mind to take note of every minor change in my bodily functions, and for once I’m not talking about my digestive tract. Sometimes the seemingly simple act of falling asleep can trigger a panic attack; the slight change in my heart rate when entering sleep mode freaks me the fuck out.


Another side effect of being so in tune (and yet so far out of line) with my body is that I cannot accurately judge the severity of any unusual symptoms. Because I don’t want to labeled as a hypochondriac, I tend to wait to seek medical attention until I’m positive of imminent death. Even then, sometimes I give it a few days, just to be sure. Recently I waited two weeks to get paralyzing abdominal pain checked out, because I couldn't tell if it was truly a busted ovary or just a suppressed fart.

Earlier this year I went to see my personal sex god (William Shatner) perform in his orgasm-inspiring one man show. I spent the first half an hour pacing in the ladies’ room, holding my chest to keep the blood splatter to a minimum when my heart inevitably exploded from my chest. When I was a 90 pound teenager I loved being flung around bloody mosh pits; now I couldn't even handle the intensity of a Kenny G concert without losing my shit.

Really any time I’m required to sit down and shut up, be it a movie theater, wedding, a play, etc., I go completely apeshit. Just going to a routine dentist appointment takes at least three weeks of preparation and sedation, and I still end up squirming like a flatulent whore in church while stuck in that chair.


If you've ever had to veer your car onto the shoulder of a busy highway with your knee and use your elbows to shift it into park because your fists are stuck clenched so tightly shut that your palms are dripping blood, you know where I’m coming from.

But a panic attack typically lasts only 20 minutes. While an elevated level of anxiety can last for days on end, the actual “event” that I've grown to become so fearful of is so fucking exhausting that once all the adrenaline I can produce runs its course through my body for no reason whatsoever, there’s really nothing left to worry about.  And after that, well, I have to laugh. What else is there to do?



My dad died of cancer; somehow he cracked jokes about his condition to the very end. So I’m a little fidgety. So fucking what?


Some of my nearest and dearest friends are living their lives with very real illnesses. Every day these people muscle through cancer, epilepsy, or Crohn’s disease.  And I’m over here all like, “Waaahhh, my body can’t tell the difference between being hunted by a rabid sabre toothed tiger and dealing with the Sunday afternoon crowd at Applebee’s.”

My point is, while I appreciate all the kind words, it really doesn't take any special feat of strength to laugh at myself. There are plenty of times where I can’t bring myself to leave the comfort of my cat-covered couch; I just don’t spout off on the internet about it. But having a sense of humor and being a jittery mess CAN go hand in hand… as long as you can pry that fucker of a fist open.