Trying (and failing) to plan my wedding

My mum doesn’t appreciate artistic genius 

Today, my mum texted and asked me what I had been up to all weekend. 

I know she was referring to wedding preparations, but stupidly I texted her back this picture: 


She then texted back some really vicious things about both my artistic ability and time management skills 😭😩

Is it any wonder I’m a neurotic depressive with self-confidence the size of a gnat? 

Trying (and failing) to plan my wedding

I’m screening my mother’s calls because she’s a complete bridezilla — and it’s my wedding!

I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I haven’t answered my mum’s calls for about a week.

In that time, I’ve gotten about fifteen angry emails from her, reminding me about various appointments that need to be set up before the wedding can happen in god knows how long. I am so stressed I’ve blocked it from memory.

I don’t think my anxiety has anything to do with what brides–to–be are normally concerned about in these circumstances. I am not worried the florist will mistakenly use red roses instead of white ones (horror of horrors); I am not worried about dress malfunctions (in fact, I’m thinking of asking my boyfriend to flash everyone right on stage, while I make a quick exit); I’m not even worried the caterers will forget to wash their hands and give everyone e.coli (pretty picture).

No, the only thing I care about is that there are going to be over a thousand people there, by latest estimation. What the fuck? How do we even know this many people? They’re certainly not my friends — I have about six of those because people terrify me. Søren has assured me that he’s not to blame, either.

Which leaves only one suspect: my mother. And she promised to keep this wedding small and intimate. Needless to say, I have no wish to get intimate with over a thousand people on the same night. I can barely handle one as it is.

If she keeps going at this rate, I’m going to be forced to change my name, deactivate my email account, and move to a different country.  She’s going to have to make a lot of phone calls when she finds out and has to inform everyone the wedding’s off.

Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

Question: Am I allowed to invite my therapist to my wedding or is that frowned upon?

Okay, so I know I mentioned in my previous post that my therapist is trying to kill me, but I still want to invite her to my wedding because she is the most important person in my life (sorry parents, boyfriend, cat). I’m just not sure whether or not it’s allowed.

We all know how completely stressful planning a wedding is (well, maybe not everyone), but have you ever wondered how stressful it is when you’re mentally ill?

No? Neither have I. Which is why I’m so indignant I’m being put through this entire ordeal by my mother, who is actually asking me to make decisions about things. 

As an obsessive compulsive, I am simply incapable of doing this. It takes me 30 minutes to decide what I’m going to order when I’m out to eat — at a restaurant I’ve gone to for years and where I order the same goddamn thing every single time. 

As soon as I make even the most inconsequential of decisions, I’m immediately terrified I’ve made a horrible, irreversible mistake. So why my mother (who, as far as I know, has known me my entire life) expects I’ll be able to choose what dress to wear or what food to eat or what music to play on the most important day of my life (allegedly) is baffling to me.

I’m sitting here staring at the guest list she’s asked me to edit and I am at my wit’s end. How the fuck am I going to decide who gets to attend and who gets snubbed? Do I really need my father’s second cousin’s husband’s aunt to attend? Can I just leave out my boyfriend’s vaguely racist relatives? Will my father’s accountant have to be invited?

I’ve noticed my (fledgling) readership is mostly US-based, so, obviously, this list is preposterous to you, but I’m Indian and my boyfriend is Danish, and I’m now seriously considering taking us of our own list.

I mean, everyone knows weddings aren’t even about the couple. They’re about family and tradition and the crushing weight of centuries of patriarchal oppression. People may not even notice our absence.

In any case, I’m freaking out about it all and stockpiling Xanax like it’s going out of fashion. Which is precisely why the only face I want to see when I’m sitting on stage (no one told me there was going to be a stage!) and looking out over the crowd is my therapist’s.

She’s the only one who knows how to help me make a decision, and I’m going to need that when I’m asked to decide whether I do or I don’t. I think I do, but how do I know I do? Perhaps I can arrange for her to be up on stage next to me so she can whisper the right answer in my ear.

Which is why I really need advice on whether or not I should invite her. I can’t decide.

 

Adulting, I think

Another wasted gym membership

This morning, in a fit of vanity caused by what I can only assume is severe sleep deprivation, I borrowed my boyfriend’s credit card and upgraded my plan. I had to borrow his card because I am a cash only business. Years of critical theory have taught me to be very wary of the government and big banks (Thanks, Foucault), so I store all my money in my cat’s litter (no, not the dirty litter, the clean litter. Also now that you know where I hide my money, can you please keep it to yourself? If you need some, just ask).

I made this stupid, stupid mistake for the same reason I compulsively buy, then quit, gym memberships: spending money on something tricks me into believing I’ll take it more seriously. All my former personal trainers will tell you this is not necessarily true.

Should I have saved the money? Probably. I’m an unemployed 25-year-old with a master’s in feminism, for god’s sake. I could have used it to buy more important things.
Like food. Or a gym membership.

 

Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

My therapist is an evil genius and may be trying to kill me

The reason I finally decided that my story had to be shared with the world, was because I figured written evidence would come in handy if I ever turned up dead. I’d just like to put all spectulation to rest right now: my therapist did it. 

This is a sensational claim — in so far as wild predictions about a future that may never happen can be called ‘claims’ (surely not in the legal sense?). You may even be asking yourself, “Well, if she’s so convinced her therapist is a homicidal maniac, why does she keep seeing her?”

This is a valid question that misses the whole point. She’s not going to actually murder me, stabbing me to death in the shower or hitting me over the head with one of her big psychology textbooks. She’s not crazy. She’s an evil genius. In some cases, those are two separate things. 

No, her plan is brilliant because it’s far more elegant and complex than that (which is the whole reason I’m writing this; I don’t trust detectives to figure it out themselves). My therapist is conspiring to have me poison myself by passing it off as some weird kind of therapy. 

She called it cognitive behavioral therapy at our last meeting? What a crock of shit — I know almost everything there is to know about my disorder (OCD, you’ll remember), and so would definitely be aware of this if it were some sort of “gold standard in the treatment of obsessive compulsives” as she so laughably claimed. Now that I’ve had some time to research it, I’m even more convinced it’s some kind of sick joke sadistic therapists have thought up when they want a convenient way to kill annoying clients who text them incessantly after office hours. 

Right? Right?!

The reason it has to be, is because, if you have OCD with a primary focus on contamination worries, I’ve read they will make you do things like wet some toilet paper with a ‘few drops’ of your own urine and rub it all over your body. Hold on, it gets worse, you’re not even going to believe this. They may also have you contaminate some toilet paper with a “little bit” of your own feces and rub it all over your body. The book she gave me even had a whole chapter dedicated to the fact that I will be forbidden from washing my hands or having a shower for two straight weeks, including after the aforementioned (mad) toilet activities. You’d think she’d know to be a little more believable when she thought up this crap to scare me. I wasn’t born yesterday, lady. But clearly she hopes I’ll buy it, thus giving myself a really bad case of e.coli and dying by my own hand (or in this case, feces).

However, she is insisting this is the only way I’ll ever get better and has somehow managed to convince my boyfriend to go along with it. This means one of two things: either they’re having an affair behind my back, or my boyfriend is sick and tired of being the only one around here who does all the disgusting chores because he agreed to marry a 25-year-old woman who is deathly afraid of scrubbing a dirty toilet. 

I confronted him about this last night and he told me to “calm down”, which is never something you should say to a person who needs to calm down. He blatantly lied to me about it, saying he’d done independent research and the method passed the smell test. He condescendingly told me to “just google it already, if I was so concerned.” 

As if I have the time. They only thing will be googling is “what to do when your boyfriend and therapist are conspiring to kill you because they’re having an affair and he’s tired of scrubbing toilets?” 

Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

Enough of a reason to stick around, I think

It is now 4.04 am and I am finally in bed. This is shameful. I really need to get my shit together. No self-help book has ever told me that going to bed with the sun and rising with the moon is the one habit all successful people have in common. 

Anyway, I say “in bed” when I really mean falling out of it. My boyfriend and fat cat are taking up far more than their share, and since I don’t have the heart to wake them, I’m not going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon. So I have time to ruminate over why I should keep writing this blog. 

And I think I may have come up with a half-decent reason: I talk to myself. 

I know I’ve succeed in baffling you, dear (non-existent) reader, but I’m going somewhere with this, I promise. 

When I’m at my worst, which is frequently in the shower where I can be found ugly crying and begging my boyfriend to bring me a Xanax, I talk to myself to calm myself down. This is the only thing I can trust to help me during a particularly nasty panic attack (apart from the aforementioned Xanax, of course). 

However, unlike the Xanax (which I swallow furtively and with the appropriate amount of shame), talking to myself frequently earns me strange looks in public and even stranger looks at home, where my boyfriend can actually hear what I’m saying. So I’ve decided to blog to myself instead. 

It’ll serve the same purpose, while also helping me look more sane to people. That’s the hope, anyway. 

Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

All drugged up with nowhere to go

Recently, I’ve come to the momentous realisation that I literally have no fucking clue what I’m doing with my life.

It’s gotten so bad that I’m spending most nights awake, pounding away at my keyboard writing, in the hopes that my true calling will somehow reveal itself to me, like when Gabriel told Mary she was pregnant and was destined to be the mother of the son of god or whatever.

Needless to say (seeing as I’m still writing this), no such calling has come knocking on my door. These essays are really the only thing keeping me occupied, but I’ve recently realised that they are never going to see the light of day, so why bother? They’re online now (mostly so I can convince myself I’m working on a ‘project’), but I couldn’t bring myself to pony up the 40 dollars it’d take to actually register this website, so realistically no one is going to see this — let alone care. Also I honestly can’t bring myself to believe that people are still reading blogs in 2017.

A little backstory: I’ve always been a complete defeatist, ever since I was little and realised I wasn’t the best in the world at doing absolutely everything. This may not make sense to most of you, so all I’ll say is that my OCD — and yes, I have been formally diagnosed, which is why I’m all drugged up with nowhere to go — makes me an obsessive perfectionist. If this surprises you, you may want to take a moment to look up the full form of OCD. Anyway, what I was going to say was, If I’m not able to do something perfectly (which, given my standards, isn’t even remotely attainable), I don’t do it.

Which begs the question, what am I doing here? No idea. I’ll update this space with another post if I ever figure it out, but don’t hold your breath.