Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
House Party
Some "choose your quarantine house" charts because these are so fun.
And for the record...house 6, house 5, house 3, house 2 and house 6 but house 2 will be my vacation home.
And for the record...house 6, house 5, house 3, house 2 and house 6 but house 2 will be my vacation home.
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Love in the Time of Corona
I've seen your protests and I have decided to re-open WGW permanently. I guess I am an essential business. New essential business cards coming shortly.
Publishing this post may be one of the more ill-advised things I have ever done. And don't get me wrong...I am still straight up not having a good time. But I recognized the comedic potential of my most recent dating disaster almost immediately. In fact, this may be my fifth stage of grief. Not really interested in acceptance but I will be happy if "exploiting pain for laughs" is where my grief journey ends. I may not be at the point where I can laugh about it...but I think some of you will.
Our story begins much like every other love story. Girl matches with boy. Boy can't meet girl due to a pandemic. The usual. You see, unlike a lot of my friends on social media I am following WHO recommendations to protect myself and others. And I'm still a big fan of meeting in a public place. I've seen too many Datelines to consider a private residence an option. So we planned to meet May 8th. Probably at a Walmart or Target, which longtime readers will know that I am NOT above. Sure, they haven't ended well, but how many of my dates have?
In the meantime we continued to get to know each other. Fell into a pattern. Video chats and phone calls and snapchat after unfiltered snapchat. By the time our snap streak reached 40 days I realized...this is the longest "relationship" I have had in a long time.
Now were there red flags? Sure. He had a tattoo of a Japanese character. He had only ever tried one milkshake flavor from Cook Out. He thought democratic socialism had potential. He vaped a little. But you can't see those red flags when you're skiing downhill with your eyes closed refusing to take a peek because really, when has that ever worked in your favor?
So I just kept skiing. And the strange thing is, I felt myself getting a little less crazy. I definitely continued to freak out over minor miscommunications but instead of scanning internet obituaries I made myself give him the benefit of the doubt. To quote Vivian Ward..."big mistake. huge."
Has giving a guy the benefit of the doubt ever been worth it? Like in the history of the world? Consider O.J. Simpson and Charlie Sheen and Alex Karev. But what can I say, I'm a slow learner. So imagine my surprise when on the 41st day of our snap streak...totally unchartered territory...I received a video that made it ABUNDANTLY clear that my mans wasn't my mans anymore. And maybe he never was.
And I just couldn't help but think...really? The literal DAY I tell my mom about you? It's past the point of no return now. Not even 12 hours earlier I mentioned him to my mother when she asked about dating apps. The last time I showed her my profile she thought that the display of zodiac signs meant my options were all cancer patients and pescatarians. Bless her heart. There is no coming back from this. If my mother thinks you have wronged me, you are dead to her. Forever. She's a real one.
In a way I blame myself for thinking that something good would happen to me. This just reinforces the unfortunate fact that I will never be on 90 Day Fiance because I lack the delusions needed for that to be a possibility. These, let's just say - not conventionally attractive - Americans start talking to foreigners who are young and hot think "wow, I'm so lucky." Meanwhile, a guy with more teeth than fingers shows interest in me and I start to wonder what's wrong with him. More often than not it's psychopathy.
But honestly, I'm not stupid for believing what I was told. (I am stupid for a variety of other reasons.) This boy told me he wanted to take me to his church. Which is good 'cause he needs to go repent. And I have found a new life verse to get me through these trying times.
As much as I favor self-deprecation over self-esteem, I know I don't deserve to be treated like that. Because no one does.
Most of what people have said to me hasn't really helped. Mainly because no one has said "will you marry me?" or "I have facilitated your arranged marriage." And it's no one's fault, there's really no way out but through. But something that has helped is realizing that the only thing worse than this happening on the 41st day would be it happening on the 42nd day. Or the 43rd.
Life right now is kind of like a futuristic dystopian novel. Unfortunately it's more like The Village and less like the Matched trilogy, but it is what it is. Quarantine sucks but being quarantined with a guy who vapes? That would be infinitely worse.
Publishing this post may be one of the more ill-advised things I have ever done. And don't get me wrong...I am still straight up not having a good time. But I recognized the comedic potential of my most recent dating disaster almost immediately. In fact, this may be my fifth stage of grief. Not really interested in acceptance but I will be happy if "exploiting pain for laughs" is where my grief journey ends. I may not be at the point where I can laugh about it...but I think some of you will.
Our story begins much like every other love story. Girl matches with boy. Boy can't meet girl due to a pandemic. The usual. You see, unlike a lot of my friends on social media I am following WHO recommendations to protect myself and others. And I'm still a big fan of meeting in a public place. I've seen too many Datelines to consider a private residence an option. So we planned to meet May 8th. Probably at a Walmart or Target, which longtime readers will know that I am NOT above. Sure, they haven't ended well, but how many of my dates have?
In the meantime we continued to get to know each other. Fell into a pattern. Video chats and phone calls and snapchat after unfiltered snapchat. By the time our snap streak reached 40 days I realized...this is the longest "relationship" I have had in a long time.
Now were there red flags? Sure. He had a tattoo of a Japanese character. He had only ever tried one milkshake flavor from Cook Out. He thought democratic socialism had potential. He vaped a little. But you can't see those red flags when you're skiing downhill with your eyes closed refusing to take a peek because really, when has that ever worked in your favor?
So I just kept skiing. And the strange thing is, I felt myself getting a little less crazy. I definitely continued to freak out over minor miscommunications but instead of scanning internet obituaries I made myself give him the benefit of the doubt. To quote Vivian Ward..."big mistake. huge."
Has giving a guy the benefit of the doubt ever been worth it? Like in the history of the world? Consider O.J. Simpson and Charlie Sheen and Alex Karev. But what can I say, I'm a slow learner. So imagine my surprise when on the 41st day of our snap streak...totally unchartered territory...I received a video that made it ABUNDANTLY clear that my mans wasn't my mans anymore. And maybe he never was.
And I just couldn't help but think...really? The literal DAY I tell my mom about you? It's past the point of no return now. Not even 12 hours earlier I mentioned him to my mother when she asked about dating apps. The last time I showed her my profile she thought that the display of zodiac signs meant my options were all cancer patients and pescatarians. Bless her heart. There is no coming back from this. If my mother thinks you have wronged me, you are dead to her. Forever. She's a real one.
In a way I blame myself for thinking that something good would happen to me. This just reinforces the unfortunate fact that I will never be on 90 Day Fiance because I lack the delusions needed for that to be a possibility. These, let's just say - not conventionally attractive - Americans start talking to foreigners who are young and hot think "wow, I'm so lucky." Meanwhile, a guy with more teeth than fingers shows interest in me and I start to wonder what's wrong with him. More often than not it's psychopathy.
But honestly, I'm not stupid for believing what I was told. (I am stupid for a variety of other reasons.) This boy told me he wanted to take me to his church. Which is good 'cause he needs to go repent. And I have found a new life verse to get me through these trying times.
As much as I favor self-deprecation over self-esteem, I know I don't deserve to be treated like that. Because no one does.
Most of what people have said to me hasn't really helped. Mainly because no one has said "will you marry me?" or "I have facilitated your arranged marriage." And it's no one's fault, there's really no way out but through. But something that has helped is realizing that the only thing worse than this happening on the 41st day would be it happening on the 42nd day. Or the 43rd.
Life right now is kind of like a futuristic dystopian novel. Unfortunately it's more like The Village and less like the Matched trilogy, but it is what it is. Quarantine sucks but being quarantined with a guy who vapes? That would be infinitely worse.
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
Adventures in Therapy
I'm back with a new URL and an old hatred for Facebook's community "standards" since I have been in some algorithm-induced exile for over a MONTH.
Believe you me...one day I will properly address Facebook's blocking of my blogging, their complete lack of an avenue for redress and that first amendment that I'm so fond of, but for now...let's talk about brains. Actually, let's talk about just my brain. I'm not a neurologist but years of therapy have prepared me to discuss this very topic.
You see, I started this very blog to help my brain. Writing helps me process my emotions. And if you've been reading for a bit you know, I have a lot of those. Under normal circumstances I consider myself to be a pretty rational, albeit insanely dramatic, person. But once emotions are involved I throw the logic out with the bathwater.
I have an addiction to reality TV, I have a bad habit of becoming obsessed with one craft and then abandoning it in favor of another, and I also have borderline personality disorder. It's actually not as fun as Madonna makes it sound. I think Tinker Bell syndrome would be a more descriptive name as I don't feel I am on the borderline of anything. Rather I am either at the north border or the south border. One extreme or the other. And of course, if I don't get attention I am pretty sure I will literally die.
Borderline personality disorder, or BPD as the kids are calling it, is a mental health disorder that includes but is not limited to:
The thing about mental illness, at least in my experience, is that we are aware of it. I'm not a delusional girl convinced her favorite boy band member will notice her some day. Okay I am, but that's irrelevant to this situation. I know what circumstances will trigger me. And I know exactly how I am going to melt down. I know that the elaborate facade I have constructed of being a reasonable individual who can separate emotion from reality will crumble, exposing all of my faulty wiring, the cracks in my foundation and the cobwebs I've been avoiding.
I know all of these things. But I'm powerless to stop them. I can write out a list of all the signs that point to a good outcome compared to signs that point to a bad outcome. The positives could outweigh the negatives 100 to 1. If you were taking a standardized test and asked to predict the end of the passage you would definitely predict a happy ending. And you would be right. That is the reasonable assumption. Yet I remain convinced that the worst case scenario is the only possibility. Catastrophizing doesn't seem dramatic to me. It seems perfectly logical given what I feel I deserve. I can recognize that my thinking is equivalent to 2 + 2 = no one even likes you and your parents are disappointed but I can't fix it.
So if I can't help but have an ongoing panic attack because I am convinced that once I really care about a guy, every message he sends will be the last time he ever speaks to me, what do I do? Glad you asked. I bother my closest friends with my delusions by asking that we go over all the evidence and rank the possible outcomes. Once they properly interpret the situation, I ignore their advice and make myself sick worrying anyway.
I have found some helpful coping mechanisms and my patience has increased ten fold in the last few years. Of course, 10 times 0 is still 0 but I do sense a slight improvement. The thing is...any progress I make becomes punishment because even though I am learning the appropriate behaviors and the appropriate reactions, my outcomes are still all wrong. No guy has proven to be worth the benefit of the doubt. There are no benefits. Only more and more doubt.
My mom says hope for the best, prepare for the worst. I say spend so much time preparing for the worst that you treat everything with suspicion and wait for the other shoe to drop on the accelerator, driving the car you're in off a cliff. Like if Stanley Kubrick directed a remake of Thelma & Louise.
There have been lows. Times when checking social media felt like playing Russian roulette. How many posts could I see before something triggered me and I wondered what the point was anyway? Weeks where I rapidly lost weight because I couldn't shake my anxiety long enough to eat a meal and the broken positive feedback mechanism of a society that values women based on their appearance meant that "have you lost weight?" translated to congratulations and not concern. Months of not texting friends back because I was waiting for the right name to appear on my phone even though he was always the wrong guy. Years of cutting myself because sometimes the only solace I could find was in looking as broken on the outside as I felt on the inside.
But there have also been highs. Coming up with a chart to process my emotions and earning some gold stars from my therapist. Learning how to mute people on all forms of social media. Being able to vocalize what I need in a relationship. I mean, I have yet to get it but, progress is progress.
At the end of the day, I still have borderline personality disorder. I am still hopelessly extroverted. And I still need external validation no matter how convinced my therapist is that I will one day be able to validate myself...who's delusional now Lauren?
And even though it is really hard, especially under quarantine, I like being a people who needs people. We are the luckiest, after all.
Believe you me...one day I will properly address Facebook's blocking of my blogging, their complete lack of an avenue for redress and that first amendment that I'm so fond of, but for now...let's talk about brains. Actually, let's talk about just my brain. I'm not a neurologist but years of therapy have prepared me to discuss this very topic.
You see, I started this very blog to help my brain. Writing helps me process my emotions. And if you've been reading for a bit you know, I have a lot of those. Under normal circumstances I consider myself to be a pretty rational, albeit insanely dramatic, person. But once emotions are involved I throw the logic out with the bathwater.
I have an addiction to reality TV, I have a bad habit of becoming obsessed with one craft and then abandoning it in favor of another, and I also have borderline personality disorder. It's actually not as fun as Madonna makes it sound. I think Tinker Bell syndrome would be a more descriptive name as I don't feel I am on the borderline of anything. Rather I am either at the north border or the south border. One extreme or the other. And of course, if I don't get attention I am pretty sure I will literally die.
Borderline personality disorder, or BPD as the kids are calling it, is a mental health disorder that includes but is not limited to:
- self-image issues
- splitting (seeing things as black or white)
- difficulty managing emotions & behavior
- intense fear of abandonment
- difficulty being alone
- impulsivity
So quarantine has not been very cash money for me, as you can see. It turns out that the only thing worse than being expected to perform under what I would call a psychotic break and what my therapist would call "a difficult time" is having nothing to distract you from the feelings you don't want to feel. (Stay tuned for next week's episode for more on that.)
Mental health issues or mental illnesses or whatever you want to call them - they're often misunderstood, stigmatized or made fun of. Now don't get me wrong, I am under the impression that everything can be joked about. Remember my whole shtick about free speech? But I think that a little understanding goes a long way. And knowing that you're not alone goes even further.
A lot of people are struggling with mental health issues right now. Loss of a daily routine, layoffs, alone time, lightened mental load, limited distractions and is anyone else having INSANE coronadreams? So I wanted to share a little about my experience in the hopes that it helps someone, even if that someone is just me.
The thing about mental illness, at least in my experience, is that we are aware of it. I'm not a delusional girl convinced her favorite boy band member will notice her some day. Okay I am, but that's irrelevant to this situation. I know what circumstances will trigger me. And I know exactly how I am going to melt down. I know that the elaborate facade I have constructed of being a reasonable individual who can separate emotion from reality will crumble, exposing all of my faulty wiring, the cracks in my foundation and the cobwebs I've been avoiding.
I know all of these things. But I'm powerless to stop them. I can write out a list of all the signs that point to a good outcome compared to signs that point to a bad outcome. The positives could outweigh the negatives 100 to 1. If you were taking a standardized test and asked to predict the end of the passage you would definitely predict a happy ending. And you would be right. That is the reasonable assumption. Yet I remain convinced that the worst case scenario is the only possibility. Catastrophizing doesn't seem dramatic to me. It seems perfectly logical given what I feel I deserve. I can recognize that my thinking is equivalent to 2 + 2 = no one even likes you and your parents are disappointed but I can't fix it.
So if I can't help but have an ongoing panic attack because I am convinced that once I really care about a guy, every message he sends will be the last time he ever speaks to me, what do I do? Glad you asked. I bother my closest friends with my delusions by asking that we go over all the evidence and rank the possible outcomes. Once they properly interpret the situation, I ignore their advice and make myself sick worrying anyway.
I have found some helpful coping mechanisms and my patience has increased ten fold in the last few years. Of course, 10 times 0 is still 0 but I do sense a slight improvement. The thing is...any progress I make becomes punishment because even though I am learning the appropriate behaviors and the appropriate reactions, my outcomes are still all wrong. No guy has proven to be worth the benefit of the doubt. There are no benefits. Only more and more doubt.
My mom says hope for the best, prepare for the worst. I say spend so much time preparing for the worst that you treat everything with suspicion and wait for the other shoe to drop on the accelerator, driving the car you're in off a cliff. Like if Stanley Kubrick directed a remake of Thelma & Louise.
There have been lows. Times when checking social media felt like playing Russian roulette. How many posts could I see before something triggered me and I wondered what the point was anyway? Weeks where I rapidly lost weight because I couldn't shake my anxiety long enough to eat a meal and the broken positive feedback mechanism of a society that values women based on their appearance meant that "have you lost weight?" translated to congratulations and not concern. Months of not texting friends back because I was waiting for the right name to appear on my phone even though he was always the wrong guy. Years of cutting myself because sometimes the only solace I could find was in looking as broken on the outside as I felt on the inside.
But there have also been highs. Coming up with a chart to process my emotions and earning some gold stars from my therapist. Learning how to mute people on all forms of social media. Being able to vocalize what I need in a relationship. I mean, I have yet to get it but, progress is progress.
At the end of the day, I still have borderline personality disorder. I am still hopelessly extroverted. And I still need external validation no matter how convinced my therapist is that I will one day be able to validate myself...who's delusional now Lauren?
And even though it is really hard, especially under quarantine, I like being a people who needs people. We are the luckiest, after all.
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