Honesty

I write a lot about my anxiety. I do that because it helps me laugh at myself. I love to write and to make people laugh, so it’s almost like therapy to me.

Lately though, I’ve been struggling with depression. It’s surprising because I normally swing the other way on the spectrum. I’m high anxiety. Everyone hates me because of something I did, I cut my hand and will probably get MRSA, the cats are going to burn down the house, I’m pregnant from peeing on a public toilet seat, etc.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a bad bout of depression, it took me a while to identify it. I’m sure depression looks and feels different for everyone, but for me, it feels like an actual illness. Like my body is heavy and not my own. I watch my hands move a lot. I’m dizzy and foggy.

You know when you wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you just sit on the toilet for a while, staring at nothing? That’s what I do all day. I sit on the couch or bed, trying to convince myself to get up. Part of my brain is pumping me up, telling me to get up, just get up and do X. But the other part just sits there and doesn’t take it seriously.

I feel betrayed by my body and mind. I am so fortunate. I have a home, a job, friends, family. I’m not a brain surgeon or lawyer or something “worthy” of being stressed about.

I don’t want to talk to anyone, but it’s not in the way you think. When people retreat, you might picture a hermit. Like a mean old man in a basement. But that’s not quite it. It’s just that I really don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to tell anyone what’s going on because I don’t want to talk about it. I’m annoyed with it. I’m exhausted by it. I don’t feel like explaining it because it doesn’t make sense to me and I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me, or like I’m fishing for attention and sympathy.

I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to talk about anything else. It makes no sense!

I’m already better than I was yesterday. It just sucks, and it’s something I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m not a major extravert. I like being alone. So I didn’t think COVID isolation would affect me. But I guess it has.

I feel stupid writing this because I know what I look like to the outside world. I look fine. I’m still making stupid jokes and videos on social media. So I feel scared to publish this, because my brain is telling me people will think I’m faking or, again, fishing for sympathy. But damn. I am finally understanding what people mean by an “invisible illness.”

To be clear, I am okay. I know I will be okay. This is not meant to scare anyone. It’s just meant to, hopefully, relate to someone. According to my therapist, my nervous system has been fried for the last couple weeks, so I’m sure my body is just finally taking the chance to say “fuck off and chill out.” I just feel terrible for anyone else experiencing this. If you are, I’m here.

Nostalgia

I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately. I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking a lot about elementary and middle school, wishing I could put in a tape, press play and rewatch the highlights.

I have a bad memory, so I don’t remember a lot from those times. It could also be that I’ve blocked a lot out, seeing as I was a puberty monster from hell. However, I’ve noticed that when I take an edible before bed (sorry, Mom), I’m able to recall memories that were previously dormant. Like my mind relaxes enough to show me stuff I was too anxious, stressed or preoccupied to remember.

Full disclosure: this could totally be placebo effect. My anxiety makes it pretty easy to trick me into believing stuff. If a stranger on the street told me I was pregnant, I’d believe him. Wouldn’t matter if I’d had sex recently (I haven’t, Mom). Or if he followed up with, “Well, you wanna be?” I’d convince myself that yes, I actually did notice some splash-back from that Whole Foods toilet, which means my pee stream must have propelled a lingering toilet sperm from watery its depths and into my unsuspecting vagina.

This is a joke, but it’s also something I’ve had to talk about in therapy. “Sperm don’t have legs, Joanna,” is an actual thing my therapist has said to me.

Don’t trust sperm, never have.

Anyways, the other night I took an edible and started remembering things from 5th to 8th grade. Here’s what I wrote down:

My first kiss with a boy I was absolutely obsessed with. We were at the movies. When I got home, I washed my mouth with soap because I was worried about germs.

Accidentally farting in class and wanting to die.

Asking my mom why I farted so much, and her telling me it’s probably because I was eating six bowls of Raisin Bran per day.

“You’ll be cute, but never hot.” Something a middle school boy once said to me during an assembly. He was holding court on the bleachers, predicting who would grow up to be hot or not. He was my Allison DuBois, and I, like Kyle Richards, asked for information I simply could not handle.

“I don’t even take Advil.” – A girl in my D.A.R.E. class, sucking up to the officers. I was wholly addicted to Sudafed at this point, so she became my North Star.

Putting on 8 coats of lip gloss to impress the boys at gym class, only to have said boys say, “Looks like you’ve got cum on your lips.”

Putting on 8 coats of black eye liner to look mature and edgy, only to have my crush say, “Looks like someone punched you in the face.”

Begging my mom for a dark blue Chrysler Town & Country.

Playing “the floor is lava” but replacing “lava” with “a river of sperm.” (Like I said, never trusted them.)

Watching Armageddon for the first time.

Falling hopelessly, desperately, obsessively in love with someone new every year and feeling like shit when they didn’t notice me.

Falling hopelessly, desperately, obsessively in love with Vin Diesel.

My favorite pants: denim flares from Ross with an airbrushed panda bear on the left leg.

A girl telling me, “You wore those pants yesterday.” Bitch I know they’re my favorite.

Creating three fake screen-names to stalk my crush on AIM. One of them was “FashionVictim123” which was, unintentionally, perhaps the best undercover name I could have picked:

I’m on the right, flying deep under the fashion radar.

Realizing I was one of maybe two kids in my social studies class whose family voted for Gore.

Similarly, a kid telling our science teacher they weren’t going to learn about evolution.

Faking a broken toe at soccer tryouts because I didn’t realize it would be so much running.

Stepping on a mason jar, cutting my toe 90% of the way off and going into shock while my parents weren’t home.

Fiddling with a phantom bra strap in class so boys would think I wore a bra.

Believing my cousin when he told me that croutons were made from ground up bits of hamsters.

Riding my bike around the neighborhood as fast as I could, hoping all the teenage boys would look out their windows and whisper, “Damn that girl can fly.”

Absolutely living for my friends’ bar and bat mitzvahs.

Thinking Voldemort had taken control of my feet when actually they were just asleep because I’d been sitting on them too long while reading.

Being a real asshole to everyone, especially my family. Sorry Mom, Dad and Jess. I love you.

Wide Awake

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately. I’m sure I’m not the only one. My dreams have been violent and insane. My legs have been restless to the point I wonder if I’m being punished for not believing in restless leg syndrome.

My brain simply won’t shut off at night. I lay awake googling the dumbest stuff, like “nicole kidman tom cruise wedding,” and “is dick cheney still alive.”

I started keeping a journal by my bed to jot things down as they come to me, in case they’re particularly poignant. So far, I have:

• Billy Bob Thornton made it in Hollywood with the name Billy Bob.
• The way we buy fish is really rude. We walk in, pick out the coolest/prettiest fish in each tank, totally separating them from their friends and families, and then throw them all together in strange, unfamiliar tank and expect them to get along.
• I would like to see a fish tank reality show.
• Peter Pan pits all the women in his life against each other.

My friend suggested I download this app that plays special musical tones to help you sleep. It’s actually really nice. 

Since it sounds like spa music, when I’m listening to it, I try to meditate by picturing myself floating through space. And it works for a while, but then my brain is like, “let’s fuck this up.”

Here’s an example: 

I’m floating through space.

I’m weightless.

I’m peaceful.

I’m naked?

No. I’m not naked. That would be stupid.

I’m floating through space. I’m weightless. I’m peaceful–

But why am I floating through space? Was there some kind of explosion? Am I like Carrie Fisher in the Last Jedi? 

I’m floating through space. I’m weightless. I’m peace–

God I hated that scene. There’s no way she would’ve survived that explosion. Or the exposure! Who approved that? Who thought that was okay?! HAS NO ONE SEEN ARMAGEDDON?!

I’m floating through space. I’m weightless. I’m peaceful, and my skin melting off and my face caving in like Owen Wilson in Armageddon.

And now I’m wide awake.

An update

As most of my friends and family know, this pandemic is my worst nightmare realized.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been terrified of germs.

And sperm.

But most days: germs.

When I was a child, I’d patrol the bathroom to make sure my family members washed their hands.

Also when I was young, I wouldn’t touch a quilt my great aunt made for me because I was worried she’d pricked herself while sewing it, thus leaving behind an invisible trail of disease-ridden blood.

In elementary school, I threw away a pair of Skechers because I accidentally stepped on a dead bird.

In fifth grade, I ruined our family reunion because I was convinced the 100-year-old Italian home we rented was empty because its inhabitants had died of the plague.

In middle school, I thought I had Mad Cow Disease.

In high school, I got tested for Mono at least four times. (And ended up getting it! Huzzah!)

In college, I convinced myself I was pregnant without having sex.

Ah, wait.

That’s sperm.

In college, I went to the ER because I convinced myself I’d been given a dirty flu shot needle.

A few months ago, I started feeling sick while listening to “Outlander” because Claire and Jamie kept talking about small pox.

I’ve never seen Contagion, 28 Days Later, or any of those types of movies because I know they will be my absolute undoing. (I’m ruling out Parasite, too, based on name alone. Though I hear it’s great!)

In summary, my anxiety has been training for this my entire life.

I’ve spent the last few days in a series of highs and lows. One minute, I’ll be perfectly fine. Laughing, joking, eating the myriad of treats my roommate, Heather, keeps making for us.

The next, I’ll feel like I’m about to pass out.

“Unraveling.” Captured by Heather.

I am slipping back into old habits. I’m not returning phone calls, texts or emails. I’m not listening to people when they talk to me; my face is simply there to hide the panic behind it.

My stress dreams are no joke. Here is one entry from my journal:

Tuesday, March 17

“I had a nightmare last night that I had COVID-19.

I was at an Irish pub. I started feeling really weird and hot. Someone served me a blueberry muffin with eggs on top. 

Next I was home, screaming for my mom but no sound would come out. Eventually she heard me and took me to the hospital.

I was ‘first in line.’ They gave me the test. It was a cheeseboard set up with tiny amounts of fermented food. I put each one in my mouth and drank a weird liquid. Apparently that was the test. I tested positive.

They then asked if we were going to stay at the hospital or in a hotel. I told my mom to make the decision. We picked a hotel room that had a Tasmanian Devil theme.”

I am fortunate in that I have the resources to support myself during my complete isolation. I know many people have it much worse than I do. People have lost jobs. Money. Time with loved ones. So much. And this thing is only getting started.

I have no idea what’s going to happen.

It feels like waiting for a tsunami.

I’m reading Little Women which feels like a terrible decision.

I needed to write about it because I’m feeling up to it today.

The Hangover

Before I even open my eyes, I begin to count.

How many drinks did I have last night?

One before dinner, two at dinner, one after dinner…

I count the drinks like a child counts sheep. As if the counting and not the drinking will determine whether or not I’m able to rise from the ashes.

But as is my curse, my fate, my destiny: my counting is futile.

I am hungover.

So I begin to assess.

My cats aren’t in bed with me; I am a disappointment.

My clothes are human-shaped heap on the floor, like I Bathilda Bagshotted out of them.

I stretch my legs and hear the familiar crinkle of plantain chips, a half-eaten bag waiting for me under the covers, just out of cat’s reach.

I roll over.

I regret it. 

It’s going to be a long day.

I strike out for provisions, Donald Ducking across the kitchen in search of water.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stifle a scream. I hope my roommate doesn’t wake up and find this creature—this hunched, half-naked chip demon—rifling through the pantry.

She would never recover.

Back in my bed, I reach for Excedrin: my favorite drug. The perfect drug.

I take it and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I am Paul Sheldon. And the tide is most definitely out.

I hate myself. Why did I do this? Why does this happen to me? Am I allergic to alcohol? Have I been poisoned? How can I make this go away?

I start to pray for it to go away. But then I remember I don’t really pray, haven’t in years. And if I start now, with this request, surely I will be smoteth.

I decide the only way forward is through. To repent. To forgive myself, but to never forget.

A tattoo! A tattoo should do it. A permanent symbol to mark my darkest hour; a reminder to never end up here again.

I begin to design the tattoo in my head. A coffin. A rat. A black spot on my hand to mark the plague that will inevitably hunt me down and kill me should I deign touch The Drink.

Thinking about the tattoo makes me dizzy. So I change fantasies.

A cold pool.

An ice hat.

A quick and painless death.

I fantasize about waking up the next day, hangover-free. Like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning, after the horror that was his final haunting.

“I will live an altered life!” I scream, before finally succumbing to the aspirin and darkness.

fin.

Wishing

Last week, my roommate and I watched Aladdin for the first time in years. (We got Disney+. And not a day too soon, as, in a fit of insanity, I almost spent $13 to rewatch Revenge of the Sith.)

When the Genie first appeared, I was struck by a thought.

“What would you wish for?” I asked, swirling my wine around in its glass, hoping to god it would breathe and taste less like compost.

About to do some cosmic tinkering.

Heather sat still for a while. As did I. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing to wish for. This is, perhaps, for two reasons:

One, because I’m pretty happy.

Two, because I have a tendency to overthink things. I’ve read “The Tale of the Three Brothers” by Beedle the Bard. I’ve seen The Butterfly Effect (and, for that matter, read The Cursed Child.) I know how tricky cosmic tinkering can be. Before therapy, I would be paralyzed by every tiny decision, like taking one road over another, getting a flu shot at Walgreens instead of Target, eating an airport salad vs. an airport sandwich, in case I chose wrong and died. Or got listeria.  

I was also wary of blowing out birthday candles, in case some evil shadow voice came out of the back of my head and tacked on a terrible qualifier, à la Maleficent, at the end of my wish.

E.g.: “I wish my one true love will find me … AND TAKE ME TO A CHRISTIAN ROCK CONCERT!”

I’ve since calmed down. But I still take these matters very seriously.

I could wish for my dream comedy writing job, but what if what I thought was my dream comedy writing job really wasn’t suited for me? And, in jumping right to it, I missed all the other, better suited opportunities along the way?

I could wish for a more consistent writing habit, but what if that manifested itself in a sick obsession, and I forgot to eat, sleep and drink, and eventually wasted away into a pile of dust, like that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where people dance to death?

When I was little, I wished for a made-up boyfriend named Brice (who, tbh, sounds like a real asshole), a Ford Taurus and the ability to read peoples’ minds. I also wished Aslan the lion would fall in love with me, which is problematic and I think proves my point quite decisively:

Magical wishes are dangerous, because what I think I want today might not actually be what I want tomorrow. 

Except for unlimited vacation funds and the ability to speak to animals. 

And maybe for my cats to be dog-like in their willingness to travel with me. Or, at the very least, the ability to take them for a car ride without James shitting himself.

Eventually, my daydreams of a cameo on Camping with Cats came to an end when Heather finally said, “I think I’d wish for one selfless thing, like a solution to climate change, or a cure for something. And then use the other two wishes on myself.”

This pulled me up short. I hadn’t even considered using a wish on something selfless! What a monster I must be!

Perhaps Brice and I really do deserve each other.

31

I am about to turn 31. On Tuesday, actually. I’m thinking about this as I scoop a blueberry scone into my mouth, using only my right hand. My left hand I am reserving for dirty work, specifically typing this post, checking my phone, touching anything that will not be going into my mouth, etc.

I find this tactic works really well with just about every snack, except pistachios. Pistachios require two hands, and so I’ve learned I cannot text, type, change the channel or stick my hand in the garbage whilst eating them. This is, perhaps, one of the biggest breakthroughs I had in Year 30. (The other being the time I realized I didn’t have to take off my backpack to pee in an airport bathroom.)

I have finished my scone. I am now up and running with both hands.

Thirty was a great year. I really enjoyed telling people I was 30. It made me feel mature, inexplicably cool, and, to be quite honest, a little better than everyone else.

Thirty was also an adjustment year. My body changed. My skin changed. And I became a minister. In that exact order.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about my past selves. I went through a lot of iterations of Joanna, most of which I mark by the clothes I wore at the time, like rings on a tree. Bodycon Joanna appeared fun and carefree, but lived with an irrational fear of penetration-less pregnancy, MRSA and being generally despised. Power Blazer Joanna made her first work friends, who remain among her best friends today. Cool Tank Top Joanna got her ass in regular therapy and made a big life change.

I still think it’s crazy that you can completely change your life/dream/career/whatever and be okay. Three years ago, I couldn’t fathom becoming anything other than a top copywriter/creative director. Six years ago, I couldn’t fathom being anything other than a PR guru with an Ann Taylor Loft credit card. Twenty years ago, I couldn’t fathom being anything other than Catherine Zeta Jones in Zorro when her dress gets slashed off (yikes) and her hair is so long it covers her boobs. What a dream!!!

Me, at the peak of my Catherine Zeta Jones obsession. I had a ways to go.

Today, I really don’t know what I want to be, and I’m okay with that.

That’s a lie.

I thought if I wrote it out, it would have to be true.

Some days, I feel comfortable with my slow (VERY, VERY SLOW) foray into the comedy world. Others, I feel like a failure. The newness of my career change (or, “retirement,” as some put it) has worn off, leaving me feeling anxious and static, like I’m not moving fast enough, doing enough, writing enough, performing enough, etc. I see how often my friends perform or how much content they produce, and I freak out. Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Am I cut out for this? Am I actually even good at this?

I keep wearing myself (and probably everyone around me) out with this pattern of behavior. I (and likely they) are tired of hearing me say “I just need to start reading more/writing more/journaling more/looking into more improv classes/etc.,” only to do none of it. It’s maddening!

Finally, a friend recommended a book to me. It’s about a lot of things – fine, it’s a self-help book, stop asking me! – but one of the chapters focuses on keeping the promises you make to yourself.

I decided to do this. I started small. Monday morning, I promised myself I’d get a flu shot. After work, I didn’t want to get a flu shot. I was tired and hungry and scared of getting a used needle. But I got one anyways, because I really didn’t want to fuck up my first day of the rest of my life. And all that.

Because I kept my Monday promise, I kept my Tuesday promise, which was to work out after work. And because I kept my Tuesday promise, I kept my Wednesday promise, which was to go to a coffee shop on Saturday and write this post.

My point is, I guess, I’m going to start saying my goals out loud and holding myself accountable. So, in the next few months:

I’ve promised myself I will find an acting class that meets the Conservatory audition pre-req.

I’ve promised myself I will start going to therapy again.

I’ve promised myself I will not cut my hair until I am confident it will completely cover my boobs.

I hope they do not drop on Tuesday because I am getting very close to achieving this goal.

The last time I got my hair cut. January 2019.

Sour Beers and Tarot Cards

One week into 2019, I had a tarot card reading at a brewery. This was a first for me. As a Hufflepuff, I tend to avoid The Dark Arts. And as an anxiety-ridden soul, I tend to avoid things I can latch onto as proof of my imminent death. (Web MD is among The Forbidden, as are thrillers about germ warfare and, for whatever reason, Gone Girl.)

However, while at the bar, a friend approached me with an interesting proposal: a tarot card reading for the mere price of a sour beer. Her friend needed practice—and a drink—and was willing to do some readings. I was nervous, but intrigued.

“Have you ever had a reading before?” she asked.

I hadn’t. But as a child, I’d been scarred by Muppet Treasure Island and the possibility of picking up something with The Black Spot.

Muppet Treasure Island’s “Black Spot.” The stuff of nightmares.

“It won’t be like that,” she said.

So I agreed.

I sat down, still unnerved. I waited for her to ask me about my life, to dish details that she would later reposition as revelations. But she did not. Instead, she asked me to shuffle the deck and think. Think about a problem I was having, something I was wondering or trying to work through. Several thoughts crossed my mind. “Am I on the right track here in Chicago? Which theater should I try next? What’s up with me and dudes?”

I cut the deck and placed it in three piles representing the past, present and future. The stacks were by no means neat; my dry little witch hands had failed to tuck them into three tidy piles. This, she explained, meant something.

She suggested I pull the cards that jutted out the most. These were the cards with something to reveal.

The first card I pulled was The Kindred, a card that represents home and welcome, but it was upside down. This, she said, could mean I haven’t yet completed the step before The Kindred. That I haven’t allowed my roots to sprout because I’m still waiting for some feeling of assurance.

This resonated with me. I don’t feel like I’ve really “dug in” to the whole comedy scene because I’m not sure where I fit in. Do I want to do improv? Or write? Or both? And where? And what if I fail? I haven’t allowed myself to fully commit to anything because I’m afraid I won’t belong.

The second card, representing the present, was Two of Knives, also upside down. Knives are useful tools, she said. But when the card is reversed, it means I’m harming myself in some way. That I might be beating myself up over a decision, or an indecision.

“Girl, you think too much,” she said. “Get out of your head.”

Noted.

She also asked me to think about what I might be aggressively avoiding (the flu), if I’m in a rut (perhaps) and how I can fix it.

My future card was The World, which I immediately took to mean I was a warlock.

Actual image of me after drawing The World. Where my horcruxes at?

But it wasn’t what I thought.

It did not, in fact, point to my future world domination. Rather, it could mean that I feel like I’m back where I started. (Which is true, since I just finished iO classes.)

The fact that it appeared upside means that I haven’t yet completed the previous phase, The Awakening. That I need to look at myself and my gifts, learn to appreciate them, and learn to let go of past lives, relationships, insecurities, etc.

The last card we drew was my favorite. It was The Traveler of Knives, and it was the only card right-side up.

This, she said, was basically telling me to say, “Fuck it.” To get out of my head and follow what I feel is right—not to the detriment of others—but in a way that will allow me to carve my own unique path. It reminded me of some advice one of my favorite improv teachers gave me: “If you feel it, do it.”

In the end, I left this reading feeling really good. It reminded me of a therapy session: the practice of picking a specific thought, and dedicating some time to work through it, to consider it from all angles. (Side note: tarot readings would be a great way to sneak in some therapy for someone who “doesn’t believe in therapy.”)

Would I do it again? Yes.

Would I pay more than a sour beer? Probably not.

Will I, from this day forward, refer to myself as The Warlock Who Drew The World? Absolutely.

Anything but write

I’ll do anything but write.

I’ll clean my room, brush the cats, reorganize my closets.

I’ll do anything but write. Because writing is terrifying.

Of course, I love to write. It’s why I moved to Chicago. But in doing so, I put something out into the universe that I can’t take back. I went after a fantasy of mine that’s never seen the light of day. Something that, until recently, lived as a picture-perfect daydream in the back of my mind. What’s going to happen when I drag it out? When I tear it from its safe place and say, “Here, World, is my most precious dream. Please discuss.”

That’s why, today, I’ll do anything but write. I’ll get a flu shot, I’ll buy some running shoes, I’ll stare at my cats — anything and everything to put off what’s most important.

My sketches need rewrites. My blog needs an update. But my face needs a fucking dermatologist. And that’s something I can tackle in a phone call.

 

Tonight!, I tell myself. Tonight, we write! But first, isn’t it Harry Potter weekend? And shouldn’t I watch something happy — just for a minute! — to get myself out of this crotchety headspace?

I turn on ABC Family and trick myself into forgetting how Harry gets Slughorn’s memory juice. Then, I genuinely forget who dies at the end of the series (everyone), and, 30 minutes later, find myself balls deep in a Harry Potter internet wormhole.

I did the same thing last month, only with Straight Outta Compton.

I’ll do anything but write, because being creative is uncomfortable. “What if I suck? I probably suck. And if I suck, what’s the point?”

I do my best to ride out these thoughts. I imagine what my old therapist would say. “Who cares if you suck? You’re taking classes to get better.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. So, in an effort to quash my inner demons, I gave myself a goal: I’ll write for an hour, and then I’ll stop. I’ll blog about something (anything!) for 60 minutes, and then I’ll publish it without obsessively editing it for weeks.

So, my hour is up. Dog walking calls. Which means by the time you read this, I’ve already picked up some poop.

 

The Doctor

Visiting the Doctor: A Hypochondriac’s Perspective

You walk in. You sign in using the communal waiting room pen. This disgusts you.

You hand the receptionist your insurance card in exchange for an annual wellness survey. You mouth “thank you” and scurry to a dark, unoccupied corner of the waiting room.

You glance at the survey. It asks you to circle any ongoing symptoms or general health concerns. You laugh. Because they have no idea what’s coming.

You pick apart the list of possible symptoms as one might a tapas menu. Mood swings? Sure! Night sweats? Why not? You crack your knuckles and begin to unleash a year’s worth of neuroses. Within minutes, you convince yourself that you’re dying, if not already dead.

You’re soon escorted back to the next holding pen. There, you strip down to your moose socks and don the dreaded cotton gown. Honestly, you don’t really think about the other naked bodies it’s touched. Until you sit down.

Days later, your doctor comes in and you chit-chat. You talk about your family, your health, the news, etc. You crack a few good jokes. She laughs. “I’m on a roll!” you think. And for the next few minutes, you smile like a smug little asshole, blissfully unaware your gown is wide open.

You move on to blood work.

You faint during blood work.

You come to in a high chair, doubled over at the waist with a trashcan between your ankles.

A nurse hands you a lollipop. You accept the lollipop. You get the lollipop stuck in her lab coat as she checks your vitals.

You mumble your apologies. She tells you to eat your lollipop. You tell her it touched her lab coat and now you’re scared to eat it. She hands you another lollipop and a small cup of water. You notice that the cup looks just like those used for urine samples, but you say nothing. What’s the point? Clearly, you’ve lost too much blood to live.

I asked the blood tech to take a picture of me in case I died. Here it is.

Another nurse comes in. She asks how you’re feeling. You say “weird.” She asks if you have children. You say no. She says, “Well honey, then that ain’t ever gonna happen.” You agree. Wholeheartedly.

You sit in the high chair like a small child waiting to be released from dinner. Once you’re able to stand on your own, you’re cleared to go.

At check out, you’re given a printout of your medical conditions. It reads:

Anxiety.
Asthma.
IBS.

“My God,” you say to yourself. “I’m a catch.”