advanced slacking

Is there a medical term for constantly having the yips, but like with feelings?

The emotional yips.

Some guys drove slowly beside me screaming, “Rebel Wilson” over and over, until I gave them the finger and then they called me a bitch, whore, and cow.

It was was terrifying and humiliating. I came inside and cried for half an hour.

Then I remembered fat isn’t a four letter word and I love Rebel Wilson. Those guys were fucking dirtbags who were, at least in that moment, completely devoid of compassion and decency. My body is not public property, open for commentary. I’m not asking for harassment by existing while fat. My weight, clothing, makeup, and hair color is nobody else’s business.

Plenty of people find me attractive — not just cute, not “pretty on the inside”, but actually appealing. Sexy. Beautiful. However, I don’t exist to be attractive to other people; if someone finds me unattractive, I am not a disappointment, bad, or wrong. 

No matter how fat or thin I get, I’m not a psychopathic asshole who has fun making someone else feel ugly and scared. So, you know, there’s that.

I am drawing the story of how hard we tried.

One of the central relationships in my life is in the process of crumbling. Or maybe it’s stopped crumbling and can be salvaged. All I know is that it’s exhausting and stressful. I’m so tired of crying.

(side note: I know Ryan has a large fan base here — deservedly so because he’s awesome — and everything is still wonderful. He’s still awesome, enriches my life immeasurably, and is my ride or die partner in crime and marathon television watching.) 

I would really love an April that doesn’t kick my ass eight ways to Sunday. Past Aprils include dead pets, random tornadoes, kidney stones, a mental health crisis that lead to a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and a drunk driver running into my house. Like clockwork, I also go a little bit crazy — hopefully something an atypical antipsychotic will avert this year.

My standards are absurdly low, a high step isn’t even necessary to clear them. Yet somehow life manages to limbo under the bar yearly. This year’s birthday celebrations involved a stomach virus and a loved one talking about suicide. Then I got the flu before I could even have a slice of leftover birthday cake.

I think May is going to keep doling out some emotional ass whoopings, what with the first anniversary of both my brief stint at the psych ward and the world-tilting suicide coming up.

I feel more emotionally solid than I thought I would while weathering The Dreaded Spring. Better living through chemistry, people. 

Everybody have fun at CHSH. Do me proud and flash your boobs at every opportunity  <3