This was probably the saddest thing I found.
This was the start of my junior year in Pittsburgh, about a month before I met "THE ONE" to wreck me for all others. But at least I was briefly happy with him in between all of that. And he's no longer the pinnacle of anything in my life (though I have been known to download his music now and then). If anything, his existence gave me hope that there were other vivacious, adorable and crazy-fun men out there. He was a good distraction from the shit-storm on the cons side of that page. Only in a young mind can "car being repossessed" stand alongside "bad haircut." And that fucking cat! At least I learned early on that I'm a dog person.
I started seeing a psychiatrist. I had a therapist after 9/11 who cut me loose a few years ago. But after some history repeating itself, I decided I needed a tune-up. And that's all I thought it would be. But when I gave this woman the rundown of my damage I started to cry. I was surprised by that. She told me I don't play the victim and that's good. But then she served up a heaping amount of tough love.
I felt like total crap afterwards. Thanks to that therapy session there was a wall up between me and the love I have for myself. But my new psychiatrist is right. There's work to do. I don't want to seek out anymore men who resemble my dad. NO DAD. It never happened before. But the last two I loved had way too much in common with that guy. I need to find out why. And I need to see it in men before I love them.
Had a super fun visit to the doctor for leg pain just before seeing my psychiatrist (I make full use of my health insurance). They performed an ultrasound on my legs. Standing on a slanted metal table, my dress hiked up around my waist, a strange man rubbing slime and instrument into my thighs, I resembled The Bride of Frankenstein. The ultrasound screen looked just like the ones people post pictures of on Facebook - it was that curved triangular shape. But instead of a baby in its middle there was a weird, long vein that I'm not supposed to have. It runs from my hip to my ankle and its killing veins in BOTH of my legs, causing me pain. It was dark in the room and a strange man was rubbing jelly on the inside of my thighs. I made it even weirder with awful jokes. He politely laughed and then I became fixated on the screen for a solid thirty minutes of him squeezing my calves so they'd produce a whooshing sound, sending blood back up to my thighs. It made me feel like a human harp. I told my sister-in-law about it and we laughed harder than I ever thought possible: "My baby is a big, dead vein! I want to post the ultrasound to Facebook with, 'I'm having a vein!" When they told me about the procedure - A HOT WIRE BEING POKED DEEP INTO MY MONSTER VEIN - I accidentally asked, "Is this like an abortion where someone will have to take me home afterward?"
The female doctor smirked a little and said, "Yeah."
I almost said "abortion" again as in, "Not that I know! I've never had an abortion! I've been on the pill since I was seventeen!"
But something in me exercised self-control.
Leslie came over tonight and offered to take me home after my vein abortion, prop me up and watch endless Netflix until my pain and/or drugs wear off. She drank her first beer in front of me tonight. She used to be a Mormon! I LOVE IT! I love her. She said, "Angela, it's like a root canal for your leg!" I hate this extra vein. Extra vein, extra foot bones, but NO DAD.
Side note: I'm going to the podiatrist next after my last foot doctor informed, "You didn't evolve properly from apes," while pointing to an x-ray of my extra foot bones.
My old blog described what happened to Mr. No-Dad. Then some trolls attacked a podcast I did with Dailysonic years ago and resorted to throwing up mean details about my past - "daddy issues," they said. But if I really had such issues wouldn't I have an Instagram account filled with photos of my boobs and butt? Maybe. I don't really know how it works or why girls reduce themselves to just those parts. But I'm trying to figure it out. And when I talked about my dad I didn't cry. I don't cry. He's just another bi-polar guy I used to love (for reasons I'm about to discover, there are more than one of these).
As always, I AM IMPROVING. I'm going to keep this journal close. This kid really knew what she was doing. Maybe with some guided meditation and hypnotherapy from my awesome new hippie Jew psychiatrist, we'll get somewhere with all of this. I've never had a repressed memory OR abortion! I know some of you will read this and think I'm over-exposed right now. I feel it a little - a raw nerve. A killer vein. But I take pride in how good I am at taking care of myself. I'll feel shame when I do something wrong. For now, I'll curse my monkey genetics and take extra care to floss - Lord knows these things come in threes!