Excerpt from my Graduate Thesis
Hello! I’m sticking to my weekly entries. I wanted to share last night’s reading with you all. Writing a memoir isn't easy, especially if the content is triggering and controversial. Thanks to everyone who showed me support — friends, family, professors, and kind strangers in cafes — as I continue to write my story. I examine my own experiences on a micro-level while weaving in a more macro critique of our society's prescriptive drug solution to mental healthcare.
I hope my words don't offend anyone, but I apologize in advance… My story is bigger than just me. As women, we are judged on our appearance and questioned on the validity of our feelings. Even when things escalate to the judicial system, we often go unheard.
If I can help at least one other person out there, I'll consider it a success.
Excerpt from Charmed Life:
It was heavily advised that during one’s stay at rehab, romantic relationships should be avoided at all costs. My boy-crazy self lasted three whole days. My first one was with Richy, a man who I was pretty sure was in the mafia. His family owned a catering business in Queens, a place where I assumed money was laundered. His wrists were adorned with David Yurman jewelry and a flashy gold Rolex. We smiled at each other during an AA meeting. Afterwards, he approached me and walked me into the gift shop. I liked being doted on – his attention was flattering, as male attention usually is for me. He and I peered at the stones and shiny pieces through the glass window. We admired the handcrafted beaded bracelets and stone-carved pendants on chains, the woven baskets, dreamcatchers, candles and incense to burn. “Which one’s your favorite?” He asked.
Without hesitation, I pointed to the black obsidian Buddha. This intricate crystal was known to spiritually cleanse, and I was drawn to its powers. He handed the cashier a crisp $100 bill from a fat wallet of straight cash. I liked the way he spoiled me.
For the next few nights, Richy and I would make out in the alleyway after dark. We’d sneak away from snacktime post-nighttime meds to fool around in the desert. His mouth tasted like tobacco, the only drug we were allowed access. He was a man of few words, but in his thick, New York accent I managed to understand his deep love for the Yankees and for cocaine. That’s what ended him up in a place like this. I tried to concentrate on his story, but my eyes, heavy from unnecessary antipsychotics they forced me to take, I zoned out, and the only thing I could do was close them and let his smokey lips lock into mine.
Richy left a few days later, as we only overlapped briefly in our treatment. He promised he would take me out when I was back in the city.
A few years later he slid into my DMs on Instagram in response to a provocative mirror selfie and invited me to his family’s estate on Long Island. He sent an Uber to pick me up from work. He asked me what kind of porn I liked. I felt uncomfortable, but tried to act sexy and play along – I think he’s married with a child now.
***
Although my electronics were confiscated upon arrival at the center, I soon demanded repossession of my iPhone 5, so I could workout to music. I convinced the staff it was an iPod and also convinced my parents to switch my service to activate that phone instead of my newer one I had received as a birthday gift (I brought both). My sneakiness allowed me internet access, which I found myself missing more than my friends. I couldn’t keep my phone with me in my room, but each time I went for a run I would open up my apps and log onto social media, yet another addiction.
I posted a Facebook status to maintain my online upbeat brand: “so excited for this fitness retreat out west!” I smiled as my phone buzzed with likes and comments. I had to stay online to keep up my fitness facade.
I used Facetune, a photo editing app, to smooth my pores and make me flawless – almost porcelain. I enhanced my eyes to an unnatural shade of green. The reshape feature cinched in my waist. I was a size-24, but all my meds were making me gain weight. I used another tool to make my teeth celebrity white. Gorgeous, I thought. A little red heart with Akau’s Instagram handle was all the approval I needed.
When I finally detoxed, I realized I made myself look inhuman. Instead of protecting my image, I was drawing negative attention to myself. Although I’ve since deleted them from my page, these embarrassing photos were definitely screenshotted and circulated as group chat gossip. I certainly would have participated.
One day, after a run, before I returned my “iPod,” I refreshed the spin studio’s company website and discovered my picture was gone. I had been erased from the roster. When I first took my *medical* leave of absence, Akau told me my classes would be subbed out and I would come back to my “rightful” place upon return. I stormed back to the main office, picked up my phone card, shaking, and dialed Akau’s number. Oh yeah, like jail, we had calling cards. We would pay for them at the gift shop, where Richy bought me my Buddha. Since he’d left I spent my entire checking account in that store buying God knows what, but it was the only place I could buy something, and my favorite kind of therapy is retail therapy.