Simon Says - Fuck the World

Two million dollars. That is how much Lindsay Lohan was paid for doing an interview with Oprah (almighty) - during which she proved to the world she is a pathological liar....I just wonder how many people truly believed that she has only tried cocaine "10-15x in my whole life". Waaaait, whaaaat? Is she for real? That is as absurd as if Oprah decided to publicly claim that she weighs 140 pounds. Ain't nobody buyin' that shit.

To make matters worse, she did not even try to be vague about it...."oh I've only dabbled with coke, here and there."  She had to go one step beyond and put a number on it. As if that makes it more believable? Is she clinically insane? Witnessing someone tell such a blatant lie makes everyone listening so fucking uncomfortable. It's like a universal reaction. I cringed as she spoke.

(Can you imagine if Oprah really tried to claim she was 140 pounds?)

A part of me is concerned that she is actually psychotically delusional and believes herself. Another part of me is beyond infuriated at how transparent her lies are and yet Oprah did not even call her out on it. I thought Oprah was the queen of real-talk-only. Oprah ain't got no time for fraud. (liiiike, reference: A Million Little Pieces by James Frey). So why did Lohan get immunity? Oprah, why did you let Lohan off the hook? The interview progressively became more agitating until eventually I almost threw my shoe at the television. And when I say "almost"....I mean "I actually did throw my shoe at the television".

Meanwhile...in the land of ElyVas....I am at the verge of being fired because I've got a medical condition that prevents me from being anywhere on time. I swear...it's, liiiiiike, a real fucking disease. You can test for it....like you can test for cancer. I basically have cancer. And my boss wants to fire me. And Lindsay Lohan is smoking crack cocaine, lying to Oprah, and collecting a check for 2 million dollars.

Simon Says, this makes no fucking sense.

I joked about having cancer....to find humor in a shitty situation. There is obviously nothing funny about cancer. And there is definitely nothing funny about possibly getting fired from my job.

Upon request from my boss - (as part of my "damage control" protocol) - I have been thrown to the wolves (i.e. psychotherapists) to "sort out all my prahhhblems." After seeing three different people, essentially wasting ten hours of my life.....exhausted and sick of listening to my own voice whining about this-or-that...I have decided to no longer entertain their ideas of "what ails me".

Personally i don't care how many letters you have after your name. I don't care if you went to Harvard or Howard. As far as I am concerned, you are all incompetent just the same. I don't need a psychoanalysis about why I am the way I am. I don't consent to being the topic of your next research project about crazy chicks living normal lives. while i may have initially had good intentions...at this point, i am so frustrated, i demand you write me a script for my so-called "panic attacks"....a script for my so-called "broken heart"...a script for my so-called "ennui of modernity".

oh my apologies, your license does not permit you to write for medications? You spent a decade in training just to provide (shitty) therapy to people?

Simon Says, you should all be fired. (and leave ely alone).

Shit is hitting the hypothetical fan and I am growing numb to all my problems.

Existential Hangover - Until next Time,
Elyvas

Second-Floor-Sorority-Snobs

My lunch hour begins precisely at 11:59 AM....do not even consider approaching me from 11:59 to 13:00. This morning's workload warranted a quad-venti for lunch. Maybe even an extra shot of goose...given the extra grey skies. It's Friday - which apparently signals the world to act stupid-happy. "T.G.I.F" they keep chanting ...."oh fuck off" I keep repeating under my breath.

Anyway, I grabbed my bag...and was headed for the elevator...until I saw through my peripheral vision that my boss was also waiting by the elevators. At which point, I thought "Oh not todaaaay!"  Immediately, I took a sharp 90 degrees turn away from the ellie and towards the stairs. As I was skipping down the three flights of stairs....ready to get the fuck out of this building...I see Mallory, queen bee of the "Band of Bitches" from the second floor. My department actually refers to them as the "Second Floor Snobs" ... Nobody knows exactly what those chicks do...but apparently they are on the payroll.

Mallory is the epitome of "slutty-sorority-girl" who is struggling to transition into a "young-professional."  She is one of those girls whose self-worth is based on 3 things:

1. how many guys she's fucked (other than her boyfriend...I know, I know...Karma is even a bigger bitch than you are Mallory)
2. how much weight she has lost since last week. She is chronically plateaued at an unsightly 129 lbs. (The fact that I know how much she weighs tells you how vocal she is about HERSELF. "My name is Mallory. M for me me me me.")
3. how much $$$ her parents have (it's too bad money can't buy you a personality...)

Each time I am forced to interact with her...it feels like I am taking a pair of scissors and jabbing them into my eyes...repeatedly. It's a fucking nightmare. If it were any other day, I would have walked right past her without even a cordial hello. But, today was not "any other day." Mallory was bawling in the corner of the stairwell. Dear God...not todaaaaay! My initial thought was "she must have her shit-together, relatively speaking"....I mean, any girl who has had enough meltdowns knows the basics - you save the waterworks for when you are alone in your car, duh! And if you can't trust yourself to not-cry at work...then you pop a xanax before you enter the building, duhhh, honey! But here was Mallory, an obvious amateur......sobbing her eyes out like she was getting paid for it. Reluctantly, painfully.... I heard the words coming out of my mouth, "Mallory, what on earth? Why .... are .... you .... so upset?"

Mallory's boyfriend broke up with her this morning (via text message....using the classic line "it's not you, it's me.") .... my initial reaction is: who the fuck still uses that line to breakup with people? But regardless...the fact that Mallory has been dumped is liiiiike earth-shattering news (apparently)....like "alert Perez Hilton" level of news. Get Larry King on the line... someone page Oprah. Because sorority girl is fucking flooding up the stairwell. Lifetime movie-in-the-making. Don't mind the fact that there is a potential hurricane on the horizon....that Syria is currently blowing itself up....and i'm pretty sure the entire continent of Africa is either starving or has AIDS or BOTH. oh and global warming is still....liiiike, killing us, or whatever. And I might as well just mention, yea, my roots still need to be colored.

So given the global mayhem, I really struggled to empathize with Mallory's first-world problems. It also did not help that I am not familiar with the usual cliched comfort phrases. At one point, I told Mallory, "There are many fishermen in the sea...or wait, there are lots of fishes and seamen...or men in the sea? Fuck Mallory, you were cheating on the guy for months, what did you expect?"

Something about what I said (or didn't say) must have hit a nerve...because Mallory stopped crying.  Then, in true mean-girl frenemy-mode, I joked, "Maybe you just need to lose a few more pounds..." Thank the lord Mallory was able to find the humor in my ill-intended insult disguised as a joke. Maybe she's got more to her personality than I have given her credit? Maybe I should quit judging a book by its cover...(i.e. quit judging a queen-bitch by the jewels on her crown).

BambyBuzzed HandlebarHigh,
ElyVas

forgive this shit post - ill fix it in theAM

RTO, awy

I really do hope the storm clears out....and the capricious moment of love can be more than just a moment. Referencing the seventh heaven and the tree that stands at the edge of it......your words can leave a girl speechless.

hoping for enlightenment,
ElyVas

Rendiez Grace, Ayez Pitié

I was visiting a family friend's little girl in the hospital the other day. She had suffered a serious concussion playing field hockey. Fortunately, she is doing much better. I stepped out of her room to make a quick call in the waiting room. While in the waiting room, I overheard a family discussing the fate of their youngest son.

From what I gathered...Cody was their 13 year old son...who had suffered damage to multiple organs after an almost-fatal car accident. He had spent the last three weeks in a coma. This weekend he opened his eyes for the first time. He was conscious again. But the excitement was short-lived...by Sunday night Cody was back on life-support. And the family's sentiments were bittersweet. While awake, Cody seemed "different" ... like he was "unaware of his surroundings."   The doctors had mentioned something about anoxia and permanent brain damage. The family was unfamiliar with the terms...but were now facing some tough decisions.

I pretended to be busy on my cell phone but I was fixated on their conversation. The parents looked distraught....like they hadn't slept in weeks. Cody's two older siblings Becky and Mike looked to be in their 20s... were equally distraught. But Mike seemed to be the only one with some emotional stability. He suggested they pull the plug on Cody which triggered his parents to scream angrily, "How can you be so inhumane? That's your brother!"  Mike responded, "Exactly! He is my brother and I'd rather he live a normal life or not live at all."

This is when I should have walked out of the waiting room...stayed out of their business. But I couldn't control myself...I felt compelled to meddle in their private family affairs.

I told them Mike was right... (as if I was some fucking fortune teller or a medical expert?!) They all paused, looked at each other, then looked at me...."Excuse me? Who are you?" asked the mother. Ignoring her question, I continued: 

"Is it inhumane to pull the plug on Cody and let him pass on with some dignity? Or is it inhumane to keep him alive artificially? Then, have him wake up (assuming he wakes up) - incontinent, crippled, and with half the brain he had before? I wonder how morally satisfying it will be watching your 13 yr old son struggle to feed himself, unable to communicate, unable to bathe himself."

I should have been more sensitive to their situation. I think the devil took over me. The parents were visibly upset about what I had said. Becky looked like she was in shock. But Mike seemed to actually understand where I was coming from...he was able to hear past the cruel words and see the reason in them.

Again, the mother spoke, "I don't know who you are...but it's very rude of you to just barge into our family discussion like this."    So, I tried to explain myself...

"It's not my intention to be rude. You think you're helping your son by preserving what's left of him. You are refusing to listen to what the doctors are telling you about his condition. So I'm speaking to you in a crass way because I think it might get through to you better. Whether I am polite or not is not going to bring Cody back to what he was. It's the reality...it sucks but it's the reality. You think you are saving him now....but have you wondered who will take care of him once you and your husband die of old age? Are Mike and Becky going to find the energy to give up their own lives to sustain Cody's half-life? Will Cody end up at some government-funded home for the disabled...where he will probably develop bedsores and sleep in his own shit for days because the nurses are fucking lazy and lack the incentive to really care for their patients? Nobody is saying these things to your family because they think it would be "rude" .... they think you are grieving and can't handle the truth ... but the truth is what you need, whether you know it or not. Don't be a victim of your own guilt .... there should be no guilt in dying with dignity. But there will be tons of guilt in watching him live with half a brain."

Oh sometimes I really do talk too much. The mother was so angry with me that she told me to leave the waiting room. I apologized for hurting her feelings and left. Honestly, if I were in that woman's shoes...I would've been grateful to hear an outsider's perspective. The hospital's ethics committee is a group of dip-shits more concerned with being politically correct than with helping families make sound decisions.

Give Thanks, Have Mercy. Amen, y'all.

ElyVas

Sunsets on the Eastside

We ran towards the car...my hair still wet from the ocean. He held my hand as I climbed into the jeep. I was refreshed and exhausted at the same time. As he drove down the unpaved roads, I slouched in the passenger seat...soaking up the last rays of sunshine...half-asleep, half-entranced. Pia Kayser's gentle yet solemn voice singing in the background, "You can choose what you wanna feel. Thinking locks you up inside. Stop thinking and open up your eyes."   Oh how fitting, I thought! If only I could stop thinking and open up my eyes!

I had spent all afternoon alternating between being forcefully charming and dreadfully silent. Intermittently, my mind would jump back to memories of happier times...causing my heart to race... as my body froze in the moment. My eyes glazed over - betraying how disengaged I was from the rest of the group. It was rude of me...I was embarrassed by my own rudeness. By the sixth comment about my blatant disinterest, I could tell even Derek seemed annoyed.  He had spent so much time and energy planning this weekend.  And I had been showing my appreciation, halfheartedly. So each time he jolted me out of my daydreams, asking me if I was okay...I felt increasingly more pressure to compensate for my noticeable apathy. What would follow was a short-lived spike in my energy .... I was hoping my feigned excitement could charm the group and convince them  that I was truly having the best time. How many times did I have to repeat "how fun this weekend has been so far..."

Halfway down milestone road, Derek gradually slowed down the car until it came to a full stop. I sat up and removed my sunglasses to ask him why he stopped. He turned his body towards me...took a deep breath and then told me he was falling in love with me. I laughed and turned my face towards the window, unsure if he knew what he was saying to me. When I turned back around to look at Derek, his eyes were glistening. Suddenly I felt insensitive. He had meant to say something serious and I had laughed in response. I sensed that his heart (and ego) had hoped for a different reaction. But before I could speak, Derek took my hand and spoke softly, "It's okay."  It was his way of letting me know he didn't expect me to say anything back. That alone touched my heart more than any piece of jewelry he had bought or any elaborate profession of love he had made thus far....his feelings for me were independent of whether they were reciprocated. I thought that was beautiful.

The sun had set...and the cool august breeze had become a faintly crisp autumn wind. I shivered...prompting Derek to grab his sweatshirt from the backseat. Then he placed his hand on top of mine....as we drove home in silence...allowing our senses to take in what the moment had to offer.  It was the last weekend we would spend together for a long while. The summer had come to an end...and perhaps also our romance. Without the backdrop of the ocean, the island, the almost-utopian life...I wondered how much love could really grow between us.

But I must admit...I have fallen in love with Derek's idea of me...I have fallen in love with playing the part of a naive and normal girl. And I've done everything in my power to perpetuate his initial misconceptions of me...as a girl who knows no emotions but happiness. I've talked about my "perfect childhood."  I've gushed about my "blessed present life."  Through all my stories I've watched Derek fail to pick up on the subtleties, neglecting to know the real me (the one who is a drama queen in perpetual crisis)....and choosing to know the even-keeled, vanilla girl who lacks any depth. According to Derek, I've come to symbolize "all-good-things in life."   To be seen as such an unburdened angelic being....it's a vacation for my own mind. Sadly, however, it's only a matter of time until he discovers the truth. But I would rather we part ways before he opens his eyes....before he realizes that what we have is a perfection that only an image could bring. Real life, by definition, is never so picture-perfect. And real love is never captured through image...it's felt through your heart. And only once the image is shattered, can you begin to plant the seeds of a true & lasting love.

No Return Address

dear mr. diary man

at the risk of sounding crazy....i miss you (like crazy), ahhhhhh.

- sinus rhythm

(i liked the bday post, thanks)

The Human Condition

If everything happens for a reason then should we find solace in our sadness?

               Nobody chooses to grieve the loss of a loved one. Nobody wants to cry
               over the agony of a painful breakup. Nobody hopes to die a slow death
               from metastatic cancer. But in life these things happen and you do what 
               you can to get through them.

To suffer is to be human. To feel loss, to feel joy...it is a part of the journey. And there is comfort in knowing that our tears are not shed in vain...that whether we laugh or whether we cry - it all has a deeper meaning or comes from a higher power. So should we embrace pain as openly as we would embrace pleasure?    If we blunt the intensity of these emotions with medication...are we stunting our experience of the human condition? In the process of maintaining control in our lives as we struggle to cope, do we end up losing an essential piece of the puzzle... (the essential piece being enlightenment) ?  

What did people do before the era of advanced pharmaceuticals? Did people experience sadness in a different way?....in a functionally less debilitating way? Were they inherently stronger because they were forced to deal with life without using xanax or prozac as a crutch. Instead of the luxury of paying a stranger to listen to you bitch and moan ...instead of the convenience of popping a pill so you can feel comfortable in your own shitty reality....back in the day - people were more likely to rely on each other for emotional support. Did they develop stronger social bonds as a result of that?  Back in the day - people were more compelled towards action rather than waiting for things to change. Without a safety net, without any lifelines, the human spirit fights for survival...it is the conveniences of modern life that have weakened our survival skills. The luxuries have handicapped us...and left us doubting our inner strength. We have become mere victims of fate rather than masters of our destiny.

Guilty as Charged. Where my drugs at...where my shrink at...Someone call the waaambulance. Is there an app for this? Can I get a pill as a prophylactic measure...so I never feel anything but amazing? Can I get a rain-check for this drama-fest? Does feeling emotionally handicapped get me parking privileges?

on metaphorical crutches,
ElyVas

No Alarms, No Surprises

A friend of mine, Candace....at the tender age of 9...had the misfortune of finding her father hanging from his bedroom ceiling.

Earlier that afternoon, Candace had waited for her dad at the bus stop. She usually walked home with her older brother, Dan. But today her mother had taken Dan to a dentist appointment. So today her father was supposed to pick her up from the bus stop....but he had not. Restless and hungry, she decided to walk home. As she walked up her porch steps she noticed the newspaper was still on the grass...she wondered why her dad hadn't read the paper today? Stepping inside, she yelled out "Daaaaad, I'm hoooome! Did you forget about me?" She paused, listening for her dad's footsteps. But she heard nothing. She figured he must be in his bedroom. Calling out again as she skipped up the steps, "Daaaaaddy where are you?" She reached the top of the stairs....she could hear music down the hall .... "this is my final fit, my final bellyache, with no alarms and no surprises..."  it was her dad's favorite band. She walked towards the music...banged on the door to her parent's bedroom. "Daddy?" She turned the knob...pushed the door open....and found her 39 year old father, with a rope around his neck, his body hanging limp...lifeless.

There was an envelope on the bed with the words: "To Candace and Danny" written on the front. Candace doesn't remember the hour between finding her father dead and her mother and Dan coming home. She says her mom found her sitting silently in the neighbor's yard. When her mother asked her what she was doing over there, Candace did not respond. It was not until several months later that Candace finally returned to school. And it was not until years later that Candace told me what unraveled in the aftermath of such a horrifying incident.

After the initial shock subsided, Candace's mother went into a psychotic period during which she would disappear for weeks at a time, leaving Dan and Candace to care for themselves. Eventually, her mother was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility. She was deemed incompetent and court-ordered to remain there until she regained her mental capacities. A month later, when Candace's mother returned home, she was only a shell of her former self. She had gone from being a bubbly, animated woman to an expressionless zombie. Each morning and evening...she would take a cocktail of medications prescribed by some psych(o)...and as each day passed, she became less and less like her old self. Her soul had surrendered to the power of pills.

I met Candace in the 7th grade. We both had after-school detention (I had been caught leaving school early...she had been caught smoking cigarettes in the girl's locker room). We must have seen ourselves in each other because we shared an instant understanding that went beyond words.  I think we both were rebelling against the unrest in our lives but despite our misbehavior...we wanted nothing more than stability ....and conventional happiness. Candace later found that happiness in the form of a wonderful husband and a beautiful baby girl.

It's been almost 20 years since that fateful day. I've watched Candace go through the highs and lows of life. And at times I've watched her struggle to keep going ... But no matter how high the hurdle, Candace has always managed to remain fearless. No matter how trying the situation...she never lost hope for the possibility of better days ahead. Now a loving wife and a proud mother....her dreams from yesteryear have finally become a reality. Knowing what she's been through and how far she has come, I think Candace is truly one of the lucky ones.

ElyVas

When it Rains...it Downpours

It was a Thursday morning, in the middle of last spring. I was startled awake by the shrill ringing of an old school telephone. Haphazardly rolling out of bed, I looked around the room trying to figure out where the night had taken me…whose bedroom I had finally surrendered to. I was in an over-sized white t-shirt. My own clothes were nowhere to be found. My hair had the faint smell of vomit and perfume. For a minute I wondered whether I had actually dreamt the horror.  But the flashbacks were too vivid and my shock was too profound. It had been one of those nights….but so much more. It had snowballed into one of the worst nights of my life.

Once again, I heard the deafening shrill of the telephone. I picked up the receiver then slammed it down. Suddenly it occurred to me: who keeps a land-line anymore?  Had I spent the night with a fucking 75 year old?  Jeeeezuz, now I had a migraine. And how was I still unsure of where I was exactly?

I heard a vibration coming from under the bed. I bent down on my knees, cursing loudly at the entire situation. As I had suspected, it was my cell phone - that now had a cracked screen. Poor baaaby! 27 text messages. 3 missed calls. 2 voice-mails. Some bullshit event invite on Facebook. And only 2% battery remaining.

I scrolled through the 27 messages, almost in a rushed panic.... forgetting to breathe as I scrolled... desperately hoping he had responded. 

A bunch of “where are you?” texts from coworkers (some angry, some concerned). One from an old friend reminding me about our weekend plans. A couple one-word texts from unsaved numbers - "no"....and.... "nah sry." Immediately recognizing the numbers, I sighed...regretfully. Hating myself for trying to score drugs but hating them more for not having any. Fucking drug dealers. So unreliable.

Don’t care, don’t care, next. I had finished reading all 27 messages. My heart sank...he had not responded. Suddenly, I felt unwell. It was bad enough that I had lost so much dignity in one night...but the additional agony of unreciprocated love...oh how it stung! He had left me hanging...the whole world had left me hanging last night. When it rains, it pours. It fucking downpours. 

And it's on those especially stormy nights when I am most vulnerable. Thinking back to the previous day .... and the series of unfortunate events that began with good intentions...but ended with me evading arrest for a potential DUI. I was dumbfounded at how things had escalated so quickly.

¨¨¨¨¨

It all started with me sulking at the Four Seasons...half-way through my second martini...when an older woman named Seline approached me. Adorned in pearls and elegant couture...with a silk pashmina draped around her...her entire essence was oddly comforting. Irrationally comforting. It felt like she had come to save me from my melodramatic pity party. I instantly felt safe around her. Seline's niece was getting married that weekend to some "money-hungry exec at Goldman Sachs" who according to Seline went through wives like she did Louboutins. She predicted they would have two years of wedded bliss before their "irreconcilable differences" would become enough reason to file for divorce. Seline had flown in from South Carolina where her own daughter lived. And now was waiting for her husband to get showered so they could go to dinner. She asked me who I was waiting for...what I was doing there. I paused ... contemplating whether I should speak the truth - that I come to the four seasons and drink alone...most nights of the week - because at 24, I am already jaded/alone/and an alcoholic-in-the-making. That I am two days away from finishing grad school and beginning my future...and yet I am anything but excited. That all my friends are out celebrating with their families while I am engaged in a cold war with my own family. That I am knee-deep in a quicksand of addictions and can barely take a step forward without doing another line of coke. That my ex-boyfriend just got married last week to a woman who is far more stable than I will ever be! Or should I just fabricate some glamorous story for why I was downing martinis alone at the Four Seasons like no-big-deal? I went with a less abrasive version of the truth.

Seline gently put her hand on my arm, looked me in the eyes, and told me I was far too young to be so sad. Then she said, "It gets better, I promise." A minute later, Seline's husband came down, ready for dinner. She invited me to join them. I politely declined...explaining that I too should be getting home for dinner. Oh what a lie that was! We parted ways, she hugged me goodbye...and I was on my way...to nowhere.

After leaving the hotel...I drove through the city like a reckless drunk. It was only a matter of time until I got pulled over. So when I heard the sirens behind me, I obediently pulled over to the side of the road. But as I was sitting there...with the cop car's lights flashing behind me....a panic came over me: what if he made me take a breathalyzer? I would fail. So I stepped out of the car...praying to God the cop wouldn't notice. I didn't dare look back as I walked away. Literally abandoning my car. As I turned the corner, I heard the cop yell out "Hey, get back here!" While deciding whether to run or hide, I saw an inconspicuous sign on a glass door: "HM crisis response center." Without thinking, I walked in...half of me wanting to escape the cop, and the other half of me seriously needing a crisis intervention. It took me only a couple seconds to realize I had just walked into an inner-city psych ward. As I approached the second set of double-doors...I heard a loud (insensitive) voice: "Are you suicidal or homicidal?"

Angered by the way he had spoken to me...and upset at the fact that a psych ward was my alternative to jail....I yelled back: "I don't fucking know you fucking asshole!"

Next thing you know I’m being stripped of all my belongings...and being forced to piss in a cup...as a broad-shouldered, butch-looking security guard stood behind me making sure the urine was actually mine. Requesting some privacy was a mistake...she just laughed in my face, unconcerned about the spit that was flying everywhere.  Two and a half hours later....after telling "my story" to eight different people...I was deemed stable. They handed back my car keys and cell phone....and released me from their care.

It was after I left the crisis center that things became foggy. I was physically drained...emotionally cold...and had lost all rational thought. I was ready to act out my crazy.

¨¨¨¨¨

Violently exhausted from all of this writing....Perhaps the events that occurred after leaving the crisis center to waking up in a stranger's bed are best left unsaid. Or perhaps I will find the words in my next post.

until next time,
ElyVas

Old Habits Die Hard

I can remember the exact day, the very moment...the euphoric sensation...the overwhelming relief...and in that array of emotions, I knew inside that I would never stop. It was my first experience with drugs and I was already a full blown addict.

Ever since that day, my inner core has been rocked far from stability. Anything and everything I knew about normality disintegrated faster than I could form reason inside my brain. Each time I try and anticipate the crash...but nothing can prepare you for the depths of it. It's a wonder why people even dabble with the shit. But I think that is also the magic of drugs. The experience can not be articulated; only tried. It is the only way to really learn about the ride that so many people choose to take. The positives outweigh the negatives and that is why it is so hard to stop when you are still in control. Before the situation engulfs you and your logical mind, you must actively stop, or else you become helpless and a pitiful slave to the drug’s demands. And those there are many. Every day, it must be fed, sometimes every few hours. Your body won’t let you forget the absence; the headaches, the unrest, the fatigue...it all just screams at you until you feed the demon again. Under the influence, you feel better than you have ever felt before. A delusional sense of calm and control overcomes you. The world becomes more loving. Your capabilities shine grandeur. You feel invincible. and you feel like everything will be okay. The sensation is so fucking powerful. It's toxic. But as the drug takes effect, and the wondrous hours take count, the peak begins its sunset. At this point, you want to shut yourself out of society, run far away from everything you know, remain secluded so nobody observes this pathetic downfall. Becoming increasingly paranoid, you wonder where your fan club has gone...from just a few hours ago, but then you realize it was all just in your head. You’ve got nobody and the reality of being alone hits hard and all at once. Every anxiety-ridden thought finds itself inside of you, refusing to leave, not a single idea of spirituality moderates your breakdown. You can’t find the patience to explain these feelings to anybody, because in doing so, you would have to admit defeat and even worse...you would have to agree to never do the drug again. The mere thought terrorizes you, so you allow yourself to suffer, suffer long enough until you can get your next fix.This is the only thought that keeps you alive, that gives you the strength to keep going. Knowing that you will feel high again only in a few hours.

jonesing for some yayo,
ElyVas

Ely the Nutcase

My boss has discovered my health records. This is the same boss who I previously dated (unaware that he was actually married!!!). Needless to say, I am in shock. This defies any logic (wait until my lawyer hears about this!) Shouldn't it be illegal to snoop through your work-staff's medical records? I feel so betrayed and invaded .... and panicked! To be called in to your boss's (aka ex-boyfriend's) office - first thing, on a god damn Tuesday morning (which is by far the third-worst day of the week, right after Sunday and Wednesday)....

To be stared at like you are a mad-hatter on crack...then to be questioned about your sanity. If anybody (let alone your boss) asks you whether you are "well"....then, for fuck's sake, why on earth would you ever say no? Unless I'm bleeding out my left ear and my limbs are amputated...I have no fucking reason to divulge about how "unwell" I may feel. Christ's sake people....I don't walk around assuming the role of a god damn victim. I am well as far as you all are concerned. I AM VERY WELL, thank you for asking.

Mortified at the series of events that took place yesterday...and my poorly executed efforts to compensate. I thought i was an amazing actress....until i watched myself crash-and-burn trying to prove how "happy and well" i was to the entire office staff. I think at one point I was rambling about how I've traveled to such amazing places...and how my life is the epitome of quality bliss. Instead of coming off as "stable and happy"...I just came off as a fucking snob...and possibly perpetuated the "erratic-psycho" label.

Can somebody say Britney-batshitcrazy-Spears circa 2007? Can somebody say Lindsay-lunatic-Lohan circa...all her life? Paging Dr. Damage-Control.

Just as all the commotion was settling down...I started having chest pain. Talk about bad timing. Too afraid to cause any more drama, I didn't dare say anything about my potential heart attack. I figured if I ignored it...it would go away? But the pain just kept getting worse...so i retreated to the break-room to get some tea. I was leaning forward in my chair, with my head between my knees, clutching my chest....when one of the secretaries walked into the room....I didn't even hear her come in! She freaked out when she saw me sitting all funny in the chair....in a matter of seconds, she had alerted the entire office. I tried stopping her...practically begging her not to make a scene. I tried reassuring her I was totally fine...that I had no risk factors for heart disease. You know what she said to me? "Well, honey, you're crazy - that's a risk factor."

Ummmm, bitch, what do you even know about heart attacks? Next thing I know, I'm being wheeled out of the office, onto a stretcher, and into a fucking ambulance. I wish I was kidding right now. Liiiike, it was so humiliating...and then the humidity outside was giving my hair it's own version of a heart-attack. So now I will forever be known as the crazy girl with bad hair (....who almost had a heart-attack). In an unexpected twist of events, my boss intervened just as I was being forced into the ambulance. He took one look at me and realized the absurdity of the situation.

He brought me back to his office (for the second time that day) - and laid it out, cold...but honest.  He had received an email from my shrink about my "fragile-state"...which had prompted my boss to look up my health records (how that is legal is beyond my comprehension).  So much for confidentiality agreements! Why it was necessary (or what it even means?) to inform my employer that I have "red flag tendencies" - is a question mark. Then my boss said:

"Listen, I know about your various hospital admissions. I know about the time your parents had you 302d. I know you're taking meds that they prescribe to "crazy people." But with all that said, I also know that you aren't crazy. You're a work of art, Ely, and you've got a heart of gold!"

Swooooooon. No wonder I was (I am?!) madly in love with the man. He has a way with words. And he has a way of making me feel so incredible. He even gave me the day off today to recuperate from all the stress. The first task on today's agenda: fire my motherfucking shrink.

until next time,
ElyVas

Saga of Jack - Part II

saga of jack - part I

I’m maneuvering through the crowd, doing my best to appear aloof with apathy. His presence goes unnoticed as I pretend to be too distracted to have realized the love of my life is standing across the room, in his perfectly ironed button-down white shirt. His hair is messier than I remember, falling just above his eyes, as he shakes his head to move it out of the way. I need to get out of this room, get some air, maybe a drink…or two. What could he be doing here? He’s probably weak to his knees with memories of me, colliding in his mind, not letting him take a single step without wincing in pain and regret. Or maybe he just knows a person who knows a person who knows the host? That’s usually how these city parties work. You can never anticipate whose going to show which makes you inclined to dress to the nines every time you leave your apartment. Even for a low-key affair at a close friend’s rooftop…which is what tonight was supposed to be! Thank god, I followed my instinct and did my hair.

I’m trying to forget how good we were because despite all the love, he did manage to upset me quite a bit. Even after I poured my heart to him, he refused to quit playing his stupid games. Constantly trying to prove something, he couldn’t help himself from sounding like a pretentious prick. But of course, I fell into the trap, and against my best judgment, would always give him one last chance. His apologies were rehearsed perfection. And were bandages for my bruised ego, encouragement to my naïve optimism. It wrings my insides to see him charm women...through lies, deceit, and hollow affection. I can hear him from the other side of the room, telling the same exact story he told me, the night I became enamored with his style and captivated by his personality. I want to yell to his fan club…"hey girls, the story ends with him realizing how essential it is for him to continue traveling the globe, and saving the neglected communities deprived of all the resources available to us, here in the states....BLAH BLAH blahhhh” And, the night will most likely end with all of you practically begging him to call you, because you’d “love to hear more about his adventures”. Please, I have been there, done that, absolutely regret (most of) it.

As I leave through the back door, I catch a sight of what looks like Jack stealing a quick glance in my direction. Could my eyes just be playing a trick on me…seeing what my unconscious desires are wanting? Perceptual dilemmas can really throw you into a frenzy...

...tbc

elyvas

Discussions with Davio

I looked around the waiting room. It was like looking in a mirror. These people were visibly destroyed...with defeat painted on their faces, they could no longer fight the resistance. Why was I here...what had possessed me to make an appointment? Seeing my reality in the eyes of strangers sent chills down my spine. My own reckless habits and countless mistakes had brought me here. Being "troubled" was no longer a charming flaw I could spin. I had spiraled out of control. And it was becoming increasingly more difficult to conceal.

¨¨¨¨¨

Davio asked me what it is that's bothering me the most…"Why exactly are you here?"

Ummm, isn't that what I'm paying you to tell me? If I knew what my problem was…then, I would’ve found a solution, you fucking genius!

(Supposedly, Davio is an expert in the field of drama queens suffering from perpetual crises. How fitting.)

"The thing bothering me the most is that I have spent so many years lying to myself ....that I forget what the truth is."

Davio looked puzzled. He was obviously stunned at my ability to sound so "philosophical." I'm sure he was hoping (or at least expecting) for a more straightforward answer. He must have assumed I was as emotionally stunted as I appeared. 

¨¨¨¨¨

I am here because I do not know what is wrong with me. Or if there’s even anything wrong? I suffer from a post-modern view of life that leaves me always wanting more. Needing more. Like a spiritual hedon, I crave meaning, I crave experience, and I crave “feeling alive”. If I’m not being swept off my feet by a Romeo, if I’m not getting high off drugs, if I’m not buying new things…then, unfortunately, I feel dead inside.

I drive uncontrollably fast just to feel that momentary ecstasy of having the wind blowing through my hair, with the music blasting through my soul, and my mind feeling weightless. Like all my burdens have been suspended in the air. Granting me freedom to live in the moment. I am constantly chasing a high.

I am here because I do not know what’s an acceptable level of stable. I don’t know the number of times in a 24 hour day...that it is psychologically-acceptable to have an internal meltdown. I don’t know if it’s normal to constantly battle with your own mind. Is everyone else dealing with mental exhaustion and emotional detachment – like all the fucking time?

¨¨¨¨¨

Davio wants me to expand on "all my burdens" that become "suspended in the air." I warn him that my list of burdens alternates between serious-shit and.....laughable ("first world") problems. He wants to hear about my first-world problems...

My hair stylist is on vacation until next weekend. But my roots are growing in and my highlights are fading. I’ve got an upside-down ombre tone and a head full of unruly split ends – that require immediate attention. I asked Joey, my stylist, to return early from vaca....ready to pay him extra in addition to the $250 he charges for a couple hours under his magic scissors. He tells me he would love to oblige but is currently in Ibiza with his boyfriend's family. Too distraught to continue our phone conversation, I quickly threw out some cliched lines about love, boyfriends, and family...then, hung up the phone, in a serious panic.  On a crisis scale of 1 to 10, this is an 11. Now, I will have to attend my friend’s birthday party looking like a hot mess who has really let herself go.....And no, I can't just go to another hair salon...it's not the same.

My parents are spending a few weeks in belize later this year. I'm supposed to meet them in placencia but there was all this confusion about travel dates and hotel confirmations. So I emailed them - asking all the necessary questions....because I need to know before I book my flight...to fucking mexico by accident. But neither of them have responded to my email. Liiiiike, it’s been more than 12 hours since I emailed them. This just feels unacceptable. Do they even want to vacation with me? Do they even love me?

Last winter I spent a few months assuming the role of a raging-alcoholic. I convinced myself I was method-acting (without the promise of any active film role). The worst part about regularly drinking to excess...is not the brain cells you kill....but the fat that you gain. I think the fat actually makes you dumber? Anyway, I've been sober for months...and after a two-week detox, I've been eating nothing but sashimi and organic nuts. Despite my efforts, I've managed to lose only five of the ten pounds I gained (...for my movie role?!) How much more can I really starve myself? Is this what getting old feels like? You can’t just starve your way thin(ner)? Do you think these pants make me look fat? Are you staring at my cankles? 

I just got a call from my dry cleaners on greenfield ave. He notified me that they have lost my favorite half-leather, half-silk dress…."dress gone. we so sorry. we no find." If I was only “borderline suicidal" before….well this has certainly tipped me over the fucking edge.  The guy's accent is aggravating to listen to just at baseline, let alone on a day when he has fucked up big time. It’s like a hushed mumbling of half-english half-gibberish. And exaggerated hand motions that have a life of their own. The man is a serious trigger for me.

Basically, I feel like a fat chick who is cursed with unsightly cankles and nasty hair. And my parents don't love me...but no wonder they don't love me, i mean, have you seen my cankles? Ugh, Davio, you're fired! ...I need a separate therapy session just to cope with the pain from this therapy session. 

elyvas