Monday, April 27, 2015

.the odds.


i've been plagued by a lack of balanced perspective for as long as i can remember. retrospect seems to be the only method by which i can fully explore the extent of my rationale.

setting the scene:

one tiny house apartment. like 12 dudes and 4 girls, including me. 3 of said girls were in relationships.

excited to support my friend at his first stand-up house show gig, i came over immediately without changing. little did i know that the shirt i was wearing had a giant grease stain, the baggy jeans which were super comfortable had something weird going on with the crotch, the sloppy beanie only accentuated my unwashed hair and wrinkled cardigan. solid outfit choice for the night.

12 dudes.
the odds would be in my favor... if i was skinny.
but i'm not. 12 guys. 12 freaking guys and one single white female.
granted - i did look ultra homeless.
but if i was skinny i could've had a bag over my head
and i still would've gotten some play.

retrospect is the only manner in which i can view this event
and retrospect sucks ass, yet its harsh truthiness is somewhat comforting.

being fat and trying to have a conversation with a 20 something boy in a band is like pulling teeth. i'm fucking awesome. i'm funny and nice. i'm smart and semi-kind and reasonably talented. but i am fat. i am fat. and this is something that the bass player was all to well aware of. the blank television screen seemed to be more interesting to him. it cracked me up as he reluctantly told me that he was going to be a missionary in Japan this summer. his lack of eye contact and general blasé' nature led me to believe that this young man, while looking stellar, was actually a complete shallow asshole. even though we had a lot in common, i sure as hell wasn't going to implore him to give a shit. holding my own information hostage, i laughed at his utter lack of interest in another human being. the laughter at his asshattery didn't amuse him.

another young man, reddish hair, wearing shorts on a freezing day, and texting while sitting alone on the couch laughed at a few of my words. seeing that he at least had the decency to be a real human being we continued talking. he told me he was "super single". this comment struck me. i'd never heard anyone describe the level of "single" they were before. that's when it hit me... if i was skinny - this would happen. i would go for it. my friend korie then chimed in "justine... you're super nothing. you don't date." or something to that affect. and she's right. on the single scale i am "super nothing." i'm fat. only other fat men even remotely acknowledge my existence. WHAT THE HELL

it occurred to me... this was a test. this specific night was a control group.
ratio of single men to women - and the answer was unanimous - justine is fat. no one is buying it.

i could've been have woman half horse and would've gotten more action than if i was fat.

it's like life says to fat women - may the odds be never in your favor.


Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Side effect: Extreme Nausea... Damn straight.


there are two parts to tonight's story. one part is about vomit and one part is about fear.

i guess i’m never really in it alone. being bipolar has its ups and downs. (pun not intended). The positives mostly aire on the creative and energetic side while the negatives seem obvious. After being aware of my illness and seeking treatment for the last 8 years, i’ve become accustomed to some things. blood drawings, testing levels, check ins, new doctors, etc. but there’s always one thing that i’ve never been able to accept. one thing that still scares the living shit out of me. each time that i start a new medicine. the brave veneer is cracked repeatedly as I am reminded that this is not fixed. That my mental illness doesn’t just go away. That there is no cure. When things stop working or something goes wrong (suicidal thoughts, insomnia, sonia, dizziness, hair loss, etc.) I’m never ready for the next step. I’m never expecting the fear to rush in. What will this new pill do to me. It’s a rude awakening. Most of the time I can live my life numb to the fact that I’m irrevocably damaged - I can pretend that I’m normal. But on those days - when the words “we can try…” are said - it is an all to real shaking of the earth and a shocking reminder that this is not a movie - this is my life. I am mentally ill and I will remain that way until I die. This is not a fleeting issue - this is my obtuse reality. So there is the fear.

Here comes the vomit. I've been taking a new medicine since last week - an anti-psychotic which is being used to treat me as a mood stabilizer in tandem with my lamictal (another mood stabilizer). Today was my 7th day. So when I took my medicine tonight, too late after dinner - and I became immediately ill - I thought …wow it’s real. I felt alone but more sure of myself this time. Just throw up and get it out of your system. My roommate heard me. Shame and relief simultaneously announced themselves. I hate that when she asked what was wrong I had to tell her that it was my fault that I took the medicine too late and yet I felt relief that I wasn’t alone. that someone cared. She got me a drink of water as I threw up the rest of it. I’m used to throwing up. Pretty comfortable with it. I’d rather vomit than shit. But tonight I didn’t want to. I had spent 20 bucks on thai food with my friends. I didn’t want to waste it. But none the less, my absentmindedness made me purge. i didn’t even stick my fingers down my throat.They were right about the nausea. They were really right.