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.

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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. 

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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?

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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