Sometimes you know you’re smart, but you’re not QUITE “friend who’s almost done med school and has more experience with psych meds” smart…
“So, hey, what are the odds that 5-ish days without Paxil have made me feel like I have PMS on crack?”
“Very high. Paxil withdrawal blows.”
“Ha, yep, I kinda knew that, just wanted to confirm. 🙂 I’ll go fill the prescription. Jesus, Brain, you could’ve just asked for Starbucks — that would’ve gotten me to Target, and hence their pharmacy, minus the 5 days of internal screaming at EVERY mundane life obligation.”
“LOL. Why’d you stop taking it?”
“Oh, just because I’m ridiculous and ran out. They keep letting us work from home so I keep not leaving the house.”
Christ. I’ll go to Target, man, damn. Ahem… tomorrow, probably…
I just admitted to not knowing about a particular political issue, and my brain kicked in with, “You know one day your friends are gonna realize how stupid you are and not be your friends anymore, right?”
*sigh* Yes, Brain. You’ve mentioned.
But also? Fuck you, Brain. My friends know I’m the Joey, and they love me anyway — no one’s expecting me to blow their mind with my thoughts on Hamas.
“BTW, I just got out of therapy and you wanna hear some horseshit? Not only does she want me to be happy and well adjusted, turns out she can’t just ask me a couple questions and fix 40 years of shit in 45 minutes. It’s, like…long-term work? That *I* have to figure out with her help? This is just like all this alleged ‘exercise’ people want me to be doing. UGH.”
P.S. It’s a joke, I knew what I was getting into. But it IS also bullshit that I drew the short straw in the brain department.
Text to friends, based entirely in fact and science:
“They put me on the pill and said I could start it whenever, so I did, but I think my body was already preparing its regular PMS festivities, and when I added bonus hormones I fucked up its groove, because now I hate goddamn everything except you guys and Egg McMuffins.”
Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”
Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”
And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.
Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.