I live in a highrise building filled to the brim with 20-somethings. Spilling over with women (girls) who stand before unforgiving mirrors, pinching an inch (or 1/10 of one) and proclaiming “Argghhh! I’m so fat“!
The sun is just rising. I stumble to my laundry basket and retrieve the attire.
I wiggle and push and smush myself into my grey spandex leggings, too small Under Armor sports bra, cute Nike tank (cute might not be the appropriate adjective for any tank top over a size 4), unmatched white socks (can’t tell if I push one down just a little) and my neon “running” shoes.
I run. ….to the fridge, to the phone, to catch a cab. So I figure I earned the shoes.
Tugging my cute Nike tank down – because it keeps rolling up – I throw back three Advil and head for the gym.
My favorite treadmill is in front of a window. It has a TV, FM and a view. But not only do I get to be motivated by the fit people whizzing by outside looking sexy and sweaty in a way that only professional athletes can, but I have 27 different views of my ass.
I peeped over the edge of the bed, looked down, and much to my horror, I saw the white frilly bed skirt on my white, canopy bed…it was…it was….. Waaaasss it was moving? What was making it…very slowly, into my 7 year old conscious, formed the following certainty:
THERE WAS A MONSTER UNDER MY BED!
Fast forward to what seemed to be an hour – because I was frozen with fear and nearly too afraid to cry – but was more like a couple of minutes. I suspect I sounded like the little girl in the movie ET when she found the creature in the closet.
C’mon Les, keep it together. Stay buttoned up. Don’t come undone.
I am a person who seems to escalate to a place where when I do lose it, I LOSE it. My world is black and white at these times and little else. Except for the drama. I almost forgot about the drama.
I want to move back to Louisville.
I want to be with my brother in Texas.
I want to be the opposite of lonely every day, down in Orlando with my nieces and sister.
I want to become a published author. I want to write a book.
I want to go back to college and study English and the ocean.
I want to change careers – completely.
Two days into my stay at the “hospital” (and I use that term loosely), I wanted to check myself out – which was my right. I was not being treated appropriately (or at all) and even in my deep depression, I knew this to be true.
The staff not only blocked my efforts, but I later found out that they were dishonest with me as well. It was no surprise that the hospital closed not long after that.
So, I wish I could report to you that I had a good experience – but truthfully, it was pretty terrible.
The Gift was in the outcome.
Before I was even out of the parking lot, I was on my “bag phone” (yes, I’m old…think cell phone with a huge antennae) calling my Dad, and God bless him, was yelling the entire 20 or so minutes back home. He certainly did not get even a half of a word in edgewise.