Therapy

Well cool cats and kittens, I am finally in therapy. 

And not in a cute way like athletes or celebrity racists that get caught doing something bad. I mean really in therapy doing work. I always thought that I needed to be in therapy, but when you begin crying multiple times a day and losing it over minor things, you kind of don't have a choice. So my therapist is helping me to get my anxiety under control, anxieties that were on their way to becoming phobias. This is a good thing, because I was only a few days away from going completely nuttybags, yelling obscenities at people from the roof of my neighborhood grocery store.   

The thing is, I thought that anxiety was new for me, but after talking with my therapist, I realize it has always been there like an ex-boyfriend that can't take a hint, waiting to get on my nerves. I remember being at a reggae club in New Orleans with my friends and having to excuse myself to cry in my bestie's Honda while everyone else ponned the replay inside. Thinking back, my anxiety journey has been a literal trail of tears, having private crying fits before, after, and even during events in my life. 

My whole life I have been branded as dramatic and emotional because I am dramatic and emotional. So when I would get so worked up over things in college that I would race back to my dorm room, fall face-first into my twin bed, and cry into my bedspread, even I figured I was just being emotional and dramatic again. Feeling sick when I had to be around folks. Wanting to hurl at the thought of going out. It has been anxiety this whole time. Who knew?

I have to say, talking things out with someone who actually knows what they are talking about has been BEYOND therapeutic, and I would recommend it to anyone. Life has been stressful and we are finally seeing a possible end to a pandemic. If you need to talk to someone, do it. 

Flexed

I have never had a broken bone or really any serious injury because I have spent the bulk of my life being almost totally inactive. The most active I have ever been was a short period of time in kindergarten where I was hooked on double dutch and determined to be a playground champion. Well, guys, I'm a long way from kindergarten, and my body told me as much when I injured my hip flexor doing aerobics in the pool at the gym. 

Talk about a nightmare. I am still not fully recovered, I can just tell when my body is about to go south and sit down somewhere. But in the beginning, there was not a day that I didn't cry. I felt like my leg was about to pop off. Ugh, the waddling and the hopping and the maneuvering it took just to go potty. If I would have had insurance, I probably would have gone to physical therapy or something. But I don't, so all I had was prayer and tears. 

Ironically, this would happen after I took a definitive stance to get healthier. The result was me getting increasingly more unhealthy, lying on my stomach, eating junk, and watching Netflix. How many bags of Doritos do you have to eat to cure the resentment you feel towards the universe for making things worse when you wanted to get better? I won't even tell you. It's disgusting. 

I finally made my way to urgent care after I almost fell face first coming out of the bathroom. That was fun, sitting in an urgent care waiting room to be seen while trying not to breathe in coodies in the heart of COVID, only to be told that my x-rays were inconclusive, but that I do have the beginning of Arthritis. EVERYBODY SING! 

I was referred to an orthopedist who told me that he didn't know much about hip flexors, but that my urgent care x-rays were inconclusive. DUH! He wanted me to go to some imagery place and I would have, but I'd had it with being told nothing by professionals. 

So that brings us to today. I'm okay, but I won't be doing any splits any time soon. The first doc said I'd be better in 6 months. People who have had this injury say it takes over a year, realistically. Needless to say I am over it...and out of Doritos. 

My Red Hot Diflucan Summer

Do you remember that tiny pocket of time before the Delta strain of COVID chased us back in the house where we were actually enjoying a Hot Vax Summer? I use the word "we" as I refer to the culture. I wasn't participating in any of those brunches or birthday parties highlighted on social media. I was at home whimpering over my throbbing, itchy vagina. 

Many of my friends don't understand how I made it to nearly middle age without ever having a yeast infection and neither do I. I mean, when I was 18 I was wearing thongs to class in 700 degree New Orleans heat and was somehow spared. However, my good luck was no match for being put on an antibiotic for a toothache I was having. 

I'm surprised you didn't hear about it before now. I called any friend that would listen, complaining and whining. 

"Stop drinking cranberry juice!" Jamaica screamed into the phone. "That is for a UTI! Drink more water! The sugar is feeding the yeast!" This she tells me as I literally had a straw in a family-sized jug of Ocean Spray! 

"I know that you took a Diflucan Holly, but you can also use a vaginal anti-fungal," my mentor assured me. "Nothing will happen." I didn't believe her. I was fearful that I could die from some sort of vaginal overdose. In my defense, I was being irrational. It was hard to sleep, seeing that my gyn had a thick, heavy, heartbeat that rung in my ears whenever I closed my eyes. 

To add annoyance to injury, I sent my aunt to CVS to get me Monistat 1, a one-and-done treatment, and she came back with Monistat 7, a seven-day treatment! The treatment comes with these plastic pipe-like things. Who wants to be plastic-pipin' it for 7 days? Not I said the cat! 

"Oh shut up pampered pussy and use the damn cream!" Winfrey hollered at me, irritated by my sobbing into the phone. Tortilla was my only friend that showed me any compassion. She didn't make fun of my irrational fear of anti-itch cream. She's very patient with my phobias. 

The fact that women get these, some even chronically, should be front-page news! But just in case you haven't gotten one, let me leave you with some adjectives: itchy, throbbing, swollen. It's way worse than those treatment commercials lead you to believe. They will have you thinking that a yeast infection is just mildly uncomfortable. NOT! It's hellacious! 

Luckily, I lived through it to tell you about it, but it was touch and go for a minute there. Just know you have a sister in me when you inevitably end up yeasty, your cookie smelling like a medicated piece of toast. Aw, to be a woman. 

Scary to be Single

I saw a lot of awesome, life-like, terrifying costumes on Instagram this year for Halloween. However, for me, the scariest thing about Halloween was being single. Single and 36. Single and 36 at a church single's ministry Halloween mixer. Single and 36 at a church single's ministry Halloween mixer where 90% of the guys there were under 30. Everyone was so young there that they didn't understand my costume or lack thereof. I wore my camouflage maxi dress and told people I was a No Limit Soldier. No one got the joke. 

For about an hour I sat in the corner nibbling on a zebra cake, wondering where I went wrong. The music was good. I mean, you haven't lived until you've seen young Christians two-step to Kendrick Lamar. And God knows I love a good Little Debbie cake. But sitting in the corner alone, away from the comfort of my blanket and space heater, was just too much. I wanted to go home so badly that for about five minutes, I sat with my eyes closed, attempting to teleport. Spoiler alert: it didn't work. I quickly and discretely left the party, stood by the church sign and cried while waiting on my Lyft ride. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call a fun Friday night. 

You know what else is scary: I still have hope in finding love. I am nearly 40, I own nothing, I'm overweight, and it has been so long since I washed my hair that I'm afraid that if I take off my bonnet, a long, Rapunzel-esque deadlock will fall to the ground in a midst of dust and caked up Shea butter flakes. Yet I still can not shake this very real desire to share my life with someone who will think that my turbo-dread is cool...before doing me the favor of cutting it off in my sleep. The eternal optimism of the stressed-out mind: it's a real thing. 

When I got home, I took off my dress, slipped into an old tunic that I wear as a nightgown, laid down and stared up at the ceiling while sucking on a jolly rancher that came in the goody bag from the party. At least I had candy to get me through the night which was the best Halloween treat of them all, word to Mia X.