Have sex for the first time. Stay with him forever.
Happy 7-year anniversary, CJY.
Last night I beat my Minesweeper score by a full 11 seconds and finished the Expert level in 86 seconds and I’m feeling like a FUCKING SORCERER.
I don’t care how fucking lame this is, this is the crowning achievement of my whole goddamn year.
Like, can I put this on my resume? Or my LinkedIn profile? Like, ”Skills: Minesweeper Sorcerer"
I can die now.
In my time living in San Francisco, I’ve tried out a handful of online dating sites and apps. I’ve activated and deactivated my OkCupid account at least 3 times, went on a Grouper date, and have played around on Tinder, Hinge, DuoDater, and god knows what else. The only conclusion I can come to based on my brief forays into the world of online dating is that I’m really just too fucking intense to do this shit successfully.
As one who has consistently written in a journal for almost two decades, I spend a lot of time thinking about my interactions with people and the way that I intentionally, or unintentionally, carry myself around others. In the moment, I often default to exchanging sentiments that are sarcastic, crass, or almost chronically apathetic. So I spend a lot of time attempting to define and articulate the manner in which I approach interpersonal relationships; I regularly dissect my conversations and consider how my words might cause me to be perceived in a certain light. I know I’m not a bad person, and those who get to know me on any level of familiarity know that I actually emit more warmth than my typically cold demeanor would initially suggest. It’s just that sometimes I feel as if my entire personality is the product of years of careful calculations. And I feel like it’s this consciousness, this aggressive overdiagnosis of my character, that causes me to be completely useless when it comes to flirting with someone over the internet. I seriously find it fucking impossible.
I mean, fuck. Did you just read all that? Do I sound like a fun, sunshine kind of person who would be a joy to go on a first date with? I’m too skilled at describing myself. I reveal too much. Overconfidence and aggressive self-awareness coats everything I write. While I like to consider myself pretty pro at flirting IRL, I think my general intensity renders me completely incapable of replicating this effect online, because everything I say just kind of sounds bitchy and narcissistic. But when you write about yourself as often as I do, it’s a struggle to not occasionally sound bitchy and narcissistic.
I guess what I’m trying to hint at is that I think I might be too intimidating for online dating. But maybe that’s giving myself too much credit. I guess I could just be ugly.
I find there’s productivity in feeling sadness. For the last couple of weeks, as one event after another unfolded itself around me, I’ve been almost too busy to process the recent changes and losses in my life. I’ve shed tears very sparingly, not allowing myself to sit in the sadness for too long before moving on to the next activity that necessitated my attention.
Isn’t it silly how we tend to associate tears with weakness? Why is distracting ourselves from feeling considered the brave thing to do? Why can’t tears also be an act of bravery? An outward indication that instead of running from our sadness, instead of pretending that it doesn’t exist, we are allowing ourselves to feel vulnerable, and are mustering the courage to share this vulnerability with others?
I’m not a vulnerable person. I’m controlled and calculated almost 100% of the time. I am the rock my friends turn to in times of distress, I am the voice of reason to almost everyone I talk to, even strangers in passing who engage me in brief bouts of conversation. I find the experience of emotional extremes exhausting, which is why I’m largely an apathetic person; whether happiness, sadness, anger, excitement, or otherwise, I don’t venture far and wide across the emotional spectrum.
But now that I’m here, alone in my room, I’ve decided to allow myself this rare opportunity to process the melancholy that has sit quietly yet persistently in the back of my thoughts for weeks. I’m just tired of dreaming every night about conversations that have never happened, only to wake up every morning with the annoying reminder that my situation remains unchanged, that the words we exchanged were only inventions of my subconscious.
So tonight, here, in this empty apartment, I’m just going to lie in bed and write and reflect and think about you, wherever you are, and wonder if you are also lying and reflecting and thinking about me.
I’m writing this in between broken fevers and codeine cough syrup, so you’ll have to excuse any flashes of incoherence.
Two nights ago I had a terrible sleep, punctuated by dry coughing fits and the distinct pain of an oncoming sore throat. I’m prone to throat infections, so it was nothing out of the ordinary at first. I took a sick day from work, bought a humidifier and had it shipped to my apartment within a mere 3 hours using Google Shopping Express (since I assumed the dryness in California air might have had something to do with the dryness accumulating in my throat), ate some soup and self-medicated with a cocktail of Cheratussin, ibuprofen, Mucinex and Advil Cold & Sinus.
Around 3pm yesterday I fell asleep and woke up around 7pm feeling acutely aware of the tightness in my throat and how it was laboring my breathing. I could feel every inhale expand my chest with some difficulty, and I discovered that if any amount of nasal congestion came on, it would be extremely difficult to breathe through my mouth. Maybe it was the fact that I was coming off of several different drugs or the fact that I was about to enter another fevered state, but I started to panic, afraid that my throat would constrict further in my sleep and I would wake up in the middle of the night suffocating and unable to communicate. I didn’t want to end up like that woman in Texas, discovered alone and unconscious and eventually declared brain dead from a lack of oxygen. And I didn’t want to become a cautionary tale of yet another otherwise healthy young person in the Bay Area who succumbed to the flu.
So I called my mom and she told me to go the Urgent Care. With most Urgent Care facilities closed or fully booked for the night, the anxiety that my throat was going to suddenly close up began to intensify. I eventually found an Urgent Care facility that would take me and arrived just 15 minutes before they closed.
Both the nurse who took my vitals and the doctor who eventually saw me seemed alarmed by my racing heart rate. I could see the nervousness in my young doctor’s eyes as he told me that what I had could either be as simple as an infection or as worse as another diagnosis he was reluctant to say just yet. He asked me if I had a medical background, to which I responded no. He finally said that based on my symptoms, I could have a pulmonary embolism, a blood clot in my lungs, which would be rare but not uncommon in females of my age.
I sat there calmly, because I’m a calm mother fucking person. He asked me if I understood what he was saying. He asked me if I was ok. He asked me if I had any questions. He recommended that I go to the Emergency Room, where they would be able to give me a CT scan if they agreed with his prognosis. He said that if I was one of his family members, he would strongly recommend that I go. He said that, legally, he had to recommend that I take an ambulance ride over to the ER. I had to formally turn down a ride in an ambulance over to the ER so he could check some box on his form or some shit.
I met my friend in the lobby and told her she needed to take me to the ER. My doctor came out with directions to the facility, the fear and concern still in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure he said good luck to me as we walked out the door.
I arrived at the ER, where another nurse took my vitals again and again commented on my racing heart rate. He took a swab to test me for strep throat and then had me lie down on a gurney while he gave me an EKG test to check on my heart. He then took me to another room where I had to strip from the waist up and put on a hospital gown that was completely open in the back. I remember sitting there and thinking over and over, “Today is not the day I’m going to die.”
My sister and my friend eventually arrived and waited with me in this room as another nurse and my doctor filed in and out to take my vitals and ask me questions. Eventually, my second doctor explained that my first doctor probably thought I might have a pulmonary embolism because my heart rate was extremely high but I didn’t have as much of a fever at the Urgent Care. Once I arrived at the ER, I had an “impressive” fever, which could have accounted for my heart rate. I don’t have strep throat, I might have some iteration of the flu, she didn’t know, she couldn’t confirm, but she sent me off with the recommendation to drink lots of fluids, continue to take ibuprofen to break my fevers, and to come back if I continue to have difficulty breathing or develop any new symptoms.
I haven’t left my bed at all for the last 12 hours, since I got home from my 3-hour journey to the Urgent Care and the ER. As someone who rarely (if ever) asks for help, it’s a harrowing experience to be told by a medical professional that you could have a medical condition that could be fatal.
I didn’t die yesterday, but for a couple hours there I thought I might.