So Sad Today (10 page)

I’m going back on fucking Effexor.

I
S FAKE LOVE BETTER THAN
real love? Real love is responsibility, compromise, selflessness, being present, and all that shit. Fake love is magic, excitement, false hope, infatuation, and getting high off the potential that another person is going to save you from yourself.

Of course, nobody can save you from yourself. But it’s easy to ignore that reality. Simply project your own romantic ideation, childhood wounding, and overactive fantasy life onto another human being. Even better if the person possesses fewer inner resources than you. Like, the less basic coping skills possessed by the object of your obsession, the better the fake love.

One form of romantic obsession is to become infatuated with someone who actually exists. With this type of romantic obsession, you project your entire fantasy narrative onto a person in your life and attempt to get them
to comply. You take a living, breathing human being and try to stuff them into the insatiable holes inside you. These holes are in no way shaped like that person (or any person). But you believe that this fantasy person will fill you, because he or she possesses all the imaginary qualities you seek in a lover. And how do you know that he or she possesses all of these qualities? You put them there.

Another form of romantic obsession is to fall in fake love with a person who doesn’t exist at all. With this type of romantic obsession, you fall in love with a magic hologram of a person you create based on a distant image. This image may be of a dead person, an online-only person, a famous person, or a cartoon. But he or she cannot be a flesh person whom you actually encounter in waking life. In this version of romantic obsession, the hope is that if a magic hologram falls in love with you, then you are magic too. The longing is hope. It keeps you alive.

I once had a hot affair with a Twitter avatar for over two years. The avatar was shadowy and brooding—a total omega male. His tweets were those of an enfant terrible: words of disdain for the contemporary electronic music scene juxtaposed with nihilist philosophy, and also, his dick. I wanted to be mysterious and ghostly like him. I wanted a mysterious and ghostly dick. If I couldn’t physically have my own dick, I would claim the dick of the avatar. If I could not be the terrible boy, I would be the ingénue, the good witch with shadow dick in hand.

I began subtweeting spells. I conjured a narrative wherein I, with my magic tweets (and pussy), was the only one who could penetrate the darkness of the avatar. Soon the avatar followed me back and I convinced myself that he was in love with me. Now, every time he tweeted, I was sure that he was definitely tweeting to me. Something about Coachella and his dick. Me. Something vaguely Nietzschean and his dick. Me. When the avatar faved one of my tweets, I contacted a psychic for advice. Was it a love match? She recommended a therapist. When the avatar faved two of my tweets in a row, it felt like fucking.

Eventually the person behind the avatar came to New York City, where I was living, to play music. During his set I watched his hands on the turntables, hypnotized. The club was dark and I was so turned on. These were my avatar’s hands!

But after the show, I discovered that the man behind the avatar was just a regular person. He was blond, not shadowy, and very Midwestern. I sat at the bar with the man behind the avatar. We talked about Twitter and I watched him get sloppy drunk. He ate a pound of pork fried rice. I thought the spell was broken.

The next day, back on Twitter, the avatar began speaking to me again in its sexy way.
My dick my dick fuck everything my dick.
The real man behind the avatar may have just been a man, but I wanted the avatar
more than ever. And I wanted to know if the avatar wanted me.

Impulsively, I sent a text message to the person behind the avatar. Specifically, I said,
SEND ME A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR
. The person behind the avatar was confused. Communication ceased. Tweets were no longer faved. No lock of hair was sent. I found out he had a girlfriend. Now, the fantasy was no longer a safe place for me to “hang out” in my head. It was a painful place.

I’m not sure what makes us willing to try to let go of a fantasy person, other than finally being in enough pain and just being like,
Okay. I want to surrender the ghost.

But getting over the fantasy of a person (especially the fantasy of a fantasy person) is hard. I’ve been romantically obsessed with so many people that I’ve kind of become a getting-over-the-fantasy-of-people athlete. Here are some of the tactics I’ve incorporated into my training, the ones that worked and the ones that didn’t:

What are you doing? Stop doing this. Close all the tabs right now. If you feel like you absolutely can’t stop, try abstaining for thirty days. Or seven. Count the days.

Once you abstain from checking their social media, you will enter a short period of withdrawal. This is because you aren’t getting that hit of dopamine from seeing the person’s face pop up—or that shot of adrenaline from the sudden appearance of a mystery person in their selfies. You’re eliminating what may feel like your last connection to them.

But what you’re also getting is a reprieve from that emotional hangover every time they tweet something good (note: the tweets are never that good, you just want them to be). Soon you are going to feel really free.

If you really love yourself, you will block and unfollow the person on all social media. But if you really love yourself you probably aren’t reading this essay. So let’s take it slow.

Yes. This is one of the best ways to “reframe” the image of a person in your mind. Sometimes we don’t want to give up our idea of a person, because it provides us with a beautiful place to go in our heads—even when that beauty is painful. Well, laughter is beautiful too. I fully encourage you to impale that vampire on the cross of his tiny penis, simply by giving the tiny penis a name.

Eh. This can be freeing for, like, ten seconds. It’s exciting when a thirty-dollar candle promises to eliminate the memory of a person forever. But it’s unrealistic to suspect that you’ll surrender the entire fantasy of a person and never go there mentally again. And if the candle doesn’t work, you might stop believing in magic. I think it’s important to never stop believing in magic.

There is no last time.

This can be powerful, in a fake way, like being the militaristic dictator of your own sex nation. But you’re probably going to end up comparing the second person to your fantasy person. Usually, the second person won’t be able to live up to the fantasy person and it’ll just be sad.

It should be noted that this tactic can work really well on the rare occasion that the second person is as hot and amazing as the fantasy person (or at least, you
perceive them to be). But be warned: This tactic can backfire if you end up getting hooked on the second person too. There’s nothing worse than waiting for texts from two (or even three) fantasy people and not hearing from any of them.

Relationship experts say that fantasizing about one person while fucking another person is natural and normal. But it’s one thing to fantasize about someone you’ve never had feelings for, and it’s another to be reenacting
Wuthering Heights
in your head with an old lover while fucking a totally new lover. For me this has only resulted in crying during sex. And not in a good way.

You have enough friends.

Do you really want to just be friends? There is nothing worse than just being friends with someone you’re in love with who isn’t in love with you. Actually, being friends with benefits with someone you’re in love with who isn’t in love with you is worse. But friendship with no benefits is bad too.

You’ll know when (if ever) it’s finally time to be friends with the fantasy person if they text you and it’s
just boring and annoying, rather than intoxicating. Like your real friends.

I’m a very slow learner and I don’t like being told what to do—not even by me. The little warnings I leave for myself on my phone never seem to deter me in the moment of bad decision making. I’ve sexted with the word
STOP
for hours. I’ve declared my love for a toilet emoji.

But this method will probably work for some of you, and I encourage you to try it. Maybe try using the cop car emoji.

No. Stop doing this. Also, let’s take a break from reading the love section of your horoscope. Also, let’s stop googling “how to seduce Aries” and “how to make Aries man fall in love with you.” For the record, I think Aries men should just be avoided entirely. Aries women are fine though.

Depends on the psychic and depends on what they say. If they say that the fantasy person is your “soul mate,” you’re fucked.

Yes! Pick your craziest friend. Ask her about some douchebag she is obsessed with. Watch her try to turn the douchebag into a knight. Observe her inability to see that person as he really is, because if she did, she’d have nothing to obsess about.

Be grateful. You may be in a shitty place, but you aren’t as crazy as her. Remember that you have the potential to be that crazy if you don’t let go of the fantasy person.

Mantras have saved my ass so many times. If you have an overactive mind like mine, it’s very hard to continually deflect your thoughts away from the fantasy person if you don’t immediately have a replacement thought on deck. Definitely get a mantra. As soon as you catch yourself thinking about the person (even if it’s hours in), go to the mantra.

Different mantras work for different people. Some people like doing positive affirmations, but those just make me feel like a loser. Instead, I prefer weirder, trippier, psychedelic mantras and prayer mantras so I feel more like a space cowgirl than someone who is trying to tell herself she is
worthy
,
whole
, and
loved
.

I feel like therapy doesn’t really work, but that’s only because I’ve been in therapy my whole life and I’m not perfect or “fixed,” so I’m always like,
Therapy is stupid
.

That being said, I can’t imagine not being in therapy. I may never become a completely whole person, but I might have a shot at becoming three-fourths of a person. Three-fourths of a person isn’t bad.

Final assessment: Therapy is stupid and annoying, but it works just well enough that you should still do it. Definitely get help.

Don’t do this. But obviously, you’re going to do this and so am I.

S
OMETHING WEIRD HAPPENED.
A
PERSON
said that he was sorry to hear I’m still having panic attacks. He hopes I feel better soon.

It was weird to hear someone express sympathy for mental illness in the way that they might for physical illness. I mean, I know my panic disorder is an illness. I take medicine for it (an SSRI). I see doctors: a psychiatrist monthly and a therapist weekly. The symptoms are palpable. Like a person living with chronic pain, I view every area of my life through the filter of visceral anxiety. From the sensation of suffocating to dizziness and dissociation, my entire nervous system is involved—adrenal glands included. Scientifically, this shit is real.

But there is something about the classification of panic disorder as a mental condition, rather than a purely physical one, that prevents me from extending
compassion to myself. If it were solely physical, I might be nicer to me. I might actually have some self-love.

Instead I play the tape of “you’re so fucked.” I even buy into some antiquated notions around mental illness that it is “all in my head” or that I am “imagining it.”

Well, so what if it were all in my head? I’d still be suffering. Would I not deserve compassion and self-love? Intellectually I’m like,
Yeah
. But emotionally I’m like,
No fucking way. Buck up, gurl.

Even writing the word
self-love
makes me feel stupid. Is anything more bullshit, kale-eating, juice-fasting contemporary American than the notion of self-love? “Be gentle with yourself, you deserve it.” Do I really?

My feelings of shame around the condition create a drive in me to overcompensate, overachieve, and never appear vulnerable. These then serve as a catalyst for the condition. I put pressure on myself to perform like a completely healthy person, lest people find out that I am “not okay.” I don’t take sick days. I fear my condition and its implications for my life. I’m like
something is very wrong with me
and then I’m like
what the fuck is wrong with me that I feel like something is wrong with me?
None of this is good for the nervous system.

Like, right now I’m scared that I’m not being funny in this essay. I’m not wearing my mask, the one that lets you know that shit is fucked up yet also under control. The mask says:
You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve
still got it together enough to get outside the anxiety and be funny. I’m safe.

Recently, a woman said she likes my writing because I’m not a whiny cunt. I think what she means is that she likes my funny mask. But now, the panic attacks are stripping me of my ability to not be a whiny cunt. I want to be in control of my whiny cunt levels! If I’m going to alienate you, I want to curate that alienation. I want to craft the persona that turns you off. I don’t want the real me, my vulnerabilities and humanity, to leak out and make you run. I don’t want to have needs.

Like, what if you found out I am really not okay? What if you knew that I am suffering a lot right now and really scared? Would you flee? I don’t want to find out. So I deflect my vulnerability into humor or “wise platitudes.”

That’s what I did when the person extended his kind words. I was like,
Oh, well, our curses are our blessings. If I didn’t have panic disorder there would be no So Sad Today.

That’s sort of true. I mean, So Sad Today wouldn’t exist if I never experienced emotional and psychic pain that felt like it was going to kill me. And I like that So Sad Today exists. But it’s also sad that I am afraid to just say thank you, human to human, when someone extends sympathy. Like, to receive compassion means I am weak. And I am terrified of being weak.

I’m also terrified of other people’s narratives. I don’t
want to be perceived as falling apart. Like, it’s fine that I’m frightened of me. But if you are frightened of me, then the problem is more real. I don’t really know how much I am allowed to fall apart. I don’t think I want to find out.

At the same time, I kind of do want to find out. After all these years of preserving my facade in daily life, I’m fucking tired. It would probably be a real relief to just crumble. I wish I could trust that the universe has me and that I could just let go. Or, like, even if I don’t trust that the universe has me (and I don’t), it would be a relief to just surrender anyway. I think my biggest fear and deepest wish is to surrender.

Like, I would love to just stand up at a work meeting and be like, “Hi, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I may be talking about ‘our brand’ but I’m definitely dying. You are too. We all are. But, like, I think I am dying right now. My throat is closing in and my chest is constricted. I have to go. I don’t want to die here.”

I would love to tell a creative collaborator, “Hey, I know that you want to talk about narrative arc. But I’m actually not inside my body anymore. Did you know that in my head you are the enemy? You have become the enemy, because you’ve trapped me inside this Starbucks.”

I’d like to tell a friend, “I have more panic attacks
around you than anyone else. I am supposed to feel comfortable around you, and the fact that I am supposed to be comfortable adds to my shame around not being comfortable. This makes me anxious. I think we should just text for the rest of the friendship. Thanks.”

I’d like to tell a lover, “The panic attacks I have around you are more painful than the ones I have around anyone else. This is because I am supposed to feel intimate with you. The pressure to feel close to you, while I am having a panic attack, makes me feel totally and completely alone.”

It’s probably good that I don’t say these things to people. It’s probably good that I keep pushing myself to leave the house and maintain my social masks of competence, engagement, and comfort. But what if I did tell people exactly what was going on? What if I valued my own peace of mind more than what other people think of me? Would I end up jobless, friendless, and loveless? Would I vanish entirely?

One time I saw an interview with a female musician whom I greatly admire, someone who is known to suffer from mental illness. She is brilliantly talented and has exhibited some eccentric behavior over the years, including a few rather public breakdowns. She contains madness and talent. She contains both of those things.

The interviewer asked her about her typical day. He
was like, “Do you wake up and make breakfast? Do you make some eggs?” She looked at him coldly and responded, “I don’t eat eggs.”

At that moment I realized that the one question I would want to ask her, the only question for me worth asking, would be “Is it worth being so talented if you also have to suffer from a profound sensitivity that is intrinsically connected to your gifts?”

But I don’t know if she could even answer. What if she wants to possess her talent and also to be free of torment. What if she doesn’t want to have to choose. I think it’s okay to not be grateful for your curses. I think it’s okay to just want your blessings to be blessings.