5 Steps To Overcoming Heartbreak

It’s hard to write about heartbreak when you are actively heartbroken. You know, like watching the waiter march to your table with a bowl of piping hot oatmeal when you’re hung over.With that said it’s taken me almost all of 2018 to put together how to be more put together when all you want to do is pour some accelerator and light the match.

Aw yes, that balance between knowing you’re a human being with feelings and wishing you just fucking weren’t for five minutes (shout out to my dog who I constantly call a shit-head and she knows none the wiser)

It’s not easy, but it’s doable…

Below, I give you: the five steps I’ve personally taken to help me overcome that overwhelming feeling that someone has essentially rung you out to dry; but like…in the rain

1. First of all, why can’t I ever have a step one without thinking about who’s responsible for cutting the hole in the box?

1B. Know what hurts.

Ignorance isn’t bliss; it’s just ignorance.

It’s funny, cause when I was a kid and I’d try to express my feelings to my father in a snot-filled-traumatic-mumble-tantrum, he used to verbally face palm me with the same question every time: “uhhhhh, your what hurts?” Great question, I HAVE NO CLUE. It was such a vague and blanketed response to my belligerency that it actually made me stop and try to figure out who my real father was what was causing my pain so that I was more equipped to not only explain it, but ease it. Science has proven that both heartache and grief are both legitimate forms of measurable physical pain. Which means painkillers as simple as Aspirin are actually equally recommended for the heart as they are the head. For the record, I mentioned over the counter aspirin, so don’t go buck wild on prescription opioids cause Tommy from Tinder ghosted you after he asked you to be his arm candy at this years company Christmas party. Or do. Natural selection.

2. Be present.

I have a habit of extremes. The power of living (or not living) in the here and now is no exemption. I am either extremely engulfed in a moment to the point of full acceptance OR, I fly so far off the handle about future anxieties that it’s almost like you are all invited to the opening of my new theatric production of “I Am Nothing Without Him”. Solid soundtrack. The cast is a little iffy. I used to think that the first step was just admitting it, right?

Wrong, the first step is taking a deep breath and remembering that if the future seems like it’s already overwhelmingly hard, how’s right now going for you? I imagine if you aren’t starting by being really good at today, there’s no hope for tomorrow. You’re cheating on today’s happiness with tomorrow’s what if’s and frankly everyone loses. Except the guy who broke your heart and sent you into this uncomfortable spiral. He’s winning all the chips.

3. Distract.

If we’re all being honest with ourselves, there’s no easier way to get over heart ache than with a distraction. We have a scientifically studied part of the brain called the reward system that often is directly linked to the biological effects of rejection whilst being in love. When that reward system is unmanaged, it’s addictive patterns appreciate a diversion from pain and explore a more sought after feeling of pleasure.I imagine there will be backlash with how I achieve this step, and to that I say…get a hobby. Even if his name is Jared. As much as I’d like to suggest picking up a a new interest in a less taboo subject like hot yoga to “decompress and center yourself”, investing time into getting to know someone new has always effectively kept me from running back to the fire and placing my hand directly in it. Can’t say the same for the Child’s Pose.Maybe that’s a reflection of how much I see the good in people, even the bad ones. But if it takes me diving into a whole new batch of potential-bullshit just so I don’t skip back to confirmed-bullshit…let us all be stoked to be dealt another hand.

4. Be reflective, not reactive.

For the longest time, whenever I got ghosted (I say ghosted because dumped would mean the man who stopped talking to me would have to tell me why he stopped talking to me, and frankly I’m 0/456) I IMMEDIATELY rack my brain for what I could have possibly done wrong. And then I need to know what exactly I did/said, how it made all parties feel, what I could have done differently, AND how I fix not only it but world hunger, the California water shortage, the war on drugs…EVERYTHING. I NEED TO FIX EVERYTHING, IMMEDIATELY. Basically, I react so hard I don’t even have the energy to reflect. And when I found this out about myself, I made it one of the steps in not only overcoming heartbreak, but honestly eliminating the length of time before you’re at peace with the situation.

Reactions are quick, take less thought, and are…come to think of it synonymous with defining most of my past relationships. However, reflections are how I further more chose to handle any future heartache. We don’t need to know why someone chooses not to like love tolerate us. All we need is to handle rejection with grace and selflessness which will in turn outline our character and keep us on a path to who and what we deserve.

5. Surround Yourself With Love

Endorphins are the gateway drug guys. You feel love one time and it’s hard to want to be in a state of anything less. Heartache is, in my opinion, the epitome of pain because it’s not just superficial. It’s mental AND it’s physical. Your legs are weak, your brain is foggy, and your eyes are swollen from hours of both of those things colliding, making it hard to want to do anything more than replay what you’ve lost and sulk about how hard it might be to regain.

This is a piggyback on distractions, but it deserves its own step. There are people who love and adore you who have been placed on life’s back burner while you danced to the beat of falling for another sucker. They rooted for you knowing this day might come. So keep them close enough to remember what it’s like to be unconditionally supported, and bring them closer when your heart isn’t sure what that feels like anymore. There are probably a plethora of additional steps that we as individuals practice on a heartbreak to heartbreak basis, but these five above really drill home the attempt at a quick turn around for me personally. This is coming from the girl who is just happy to be alive enough to feel, even the bad shit.

The Punching Bag in Scrubs

The Punching Bag in Scrubs

I realize that today is one of the bigger days in history for politics and if I wanted to be relevant and current, I should write about my pride for living in a country that allows me the opportunity to vote.  But, if you know me, you know my level of aptitude for politics is equivalent to my knowledge of dietary nutrition, and frankly this morning I smeared peanut butter on a twinkie and called it breakfast. But I voted none the less, promise!

Anyway, this country that I love dearly and am thankful for the political freedom to alter my future by means of a ballot box in is also the same country that requires me to work a full time job to make ends meet. So, today I remember that I am in fact blessed to live a life unscathed by oppression and poverty, but I am also acutely aware of the smaller picture… working to live and living just to work. America, fuck yea.

Medicine is ever-changing. It’s subjective. It’s expensive. What it’s not is…avoidable. Some days, I just don’t know how my coworkers and I do it.

Watching human beings, care for other living things, I often think it comes as a surprise to pet owners that we aren’t here at their disposal for free. More people than i’m comfortable admitting  assume that Veternarian’s are just philanthropists who went to school for [sometimes] over a decade, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars out of their own pockets to provide educated services at no cost to the Good Samaritans who rescued fluffy from under a dumpster. GTFO. I know who has the audacity for this mentality, and frankly it’s more people than you’d think.

“If you really loved animals you wouldn’t charge this much”

“You aren’t giving me any options, I can’t afford this” *looking at options*

“How do you sleep at night knowing my pet died because I couldn’t pay you?”

Today I was asked if I enjoyed telling people that they had to take their pet home to suffer and die. That’s what this pet owner took out of our forty-five minute conversation about continued supportive care. Amidst a juggle between myself, an incredibly knowledgeable criticalist and this clearly upset owner, fluffy’s mom responded to our medical recommendations with a jab straight to our morality.

This woman, walked into our hospital, asking for OUR advice, and when she didn’t like the cost of services due to financial constraints she decided the best way to handle her frustrations was to personally insult everyone who didn’t give her what she wanted. These are the pet owners of 2018, and they aren’t getting any better folks.

1 in 6 veterinarians have considered suicide. Let that sink in. The practice of veterinary medicine is a selfless one. It doesn’t pad any bank accounts. It doesn’t elude to lavish vacations or short work days. It is a sometimes fifteen hour day, no meal  NO bathroom breaks….ending in an owner questioning your moral compass because they feel cornered by recommendations you gave for a disease that you didn’t create. I’d probably kill myself too if I had to take responsibility for not being able to save the world for free, change the outcome of the future, or READ FUCKING MINDS. 

In 2017, after a decade of being engulfed off and on in the veterinary medical field, I signed on with an emergency and internal medicine hospital as what my corporation calls a ‘financial coordinator’. Essentially, I am the liaison between a doctor and an owner. While your doctor and their techs are doing the medicine part, i’m explaining to YOU in layman’s terms why your pet needs to be sedated for a fine needle aspiration of it’s liver.  Why? Because fluffy is a loose cannon and the last thing you want is him flailing around while we stick a needle into his abdomen. Am i right? I’m right, that was rhetorical. Oh it’s an extra $100 for proper medical care? Does he really even need that? No, Karen…we just really could use that extra $100 to buy taco bell for the staff.

I am the punching bag in scrubs; the nurse of bad news. I spend every clocked in hour reiterating medical necessity while also telling owners that their 2004 furry Christmas gift is going to cost them their immaculate credit score.  And I get to do all of this while more than half of them verbally assault me as a person.

The reality is that someone has to be this punching bag until people stop punching the bag. Sick animals are never going to be a thing of the past. So when people ask how I put up with it, I remember that I’ve been doing this so long, it’s my duty to explain to the vastly uneducated pet owners the how’s and why’s of animal health.

Frankly, it costs zero dollars to be a good human being. And instead of spending this life- coupon on a healthier future for all parties involved, you’re bitching about how I had the audacity to present you valued services at costs beyond your means. I didn’t buy your three thousand dollar pure bred pomeranian so that it’s collapsed trachea would send your debt to income ratio out of wack, i’m here to give you options. And you’re here to take them or leave them, not throw a tantrum. Capisci?

For every five Karen’s complaining about inflation in medical costs, there’s a Stephanie who sends flowers to the doctor who misses her family while she stays late to pull the fish hook out of their dog’s esophagus. And that occasional floral arrangement is a great reminder to underappreciated doctors who are highly disregarded for their valiant efforts at keeping YOUR furry family members alive for as long as this life allows us, that we are in this for a reason. The reason NOT being that we would ever enjoy clocking in to schedules chalk-full of cranky pet owners hell-bent on passive aggressively tearing us apart until they get the services they can easily afford.

#endrant

#valuedservices

#thankyourfamilyveterinarian

The Sane Part of Insanity

The Sane Part of Insanity

Am I a fully licensed and accredited therapist now? BECAUSE MY DATING RECORD WOULD SHOW THAT I’VE PUT IN THE HOURS. Totally google-able, totally diagnosable.

I know what I’m doing here. Send my certificate in the mail.

The irony is, Im always the one who winds up being called ‘crazy’. Or at least being made to feel that way. Which, arguably, is way worse. Like, just call me crazy so I can write you off as a prick. Don’t turn this around and send me screen shots of my own text messages. I KNOW THAT I SENT YOU BOTH A HEART AND A KNIFE EMOJI IN SUCCESSION, being confused doesn’t make me unloveable, Chad.

So, get this….turns out, doctors don’t actually officially diagnose people as sociopaths vs psychopaths, but like…they exist. I date them. What the fuck are doctors good for anymore anyway? Pushing the opioid epidemic? Falsely representing the male population with fake diagnosis’ like: “hormonal imbalances”? No. Homeboy has no conscience, I checked for myself.

Literally the only difference between a sociopath and a psychopath is the existence of said conscience and honestly, I think it’s safe to say that this generation is lacking hard in the realm of defining right from wrong.

Right: call her when you say you’ll call

Wrong: literally any other excuse your ass can think up to get his cake and eat it too.

I’ve had harder lessons in how to brush my hair as a kid. Side note: rat’s nest Taryn came out strong.

In my honest opinion there shouldn’t be such an existential variable when it comes to the ability to consider another human beings’ feelings and act appropriately and accordingly. Everyone deserves empathy and frankly those same people also deserve the tools they need to understand a shift in behavior by anybody they’ve invested any [lengthy] amount of time into. ***This is where I should be defining “lengthy” for the crowd. Frankly my “lengthy” is always different than his “lengthy”. Cause this is where men go hard on their genitalia perimeters and dial it back for “time spent telling her that I loved her”.

If you say you owe a stranger nothing, you’re wrong. Strangers are the people who we should be giving just a little more respect to….because it’s not expected and kindness that is least expected is probably the only way out of this generational defect we’ve built around our emotional avoidance in the last two decades; or however long I’ve been alive and trying to co-exist with males.

I always told myself I wouldn’t settle. Not for anything less than what I deserved. All I truly know is….we all deserve not-a-sociopath, AT THE VERY LEAST. Boy did my standards get low…

Hashtag Unfollow

Hashtag Unfollow

Risk had it’s rewards when I let it guide my twenties with an insatiable passion for being able to admit that I feared absolutely nothing; not even a broken heart. I navigated online dating sites coast to coast for a decade sure of one thing, “there is always safety in numbers”. Ok fine, maybe mom meant something different by her idiom, but she’s not entirely wrong. Quantity, when relating to desire, always gave quality a soft place to land when it realized that people were horrible and NOTHING EVER LASTS.

So whenever I have a hard time understanding why men can’t focus on one woman at a time, I graciously remember my twenties and all the eggs I put in vast amounts of “who wants to get drunk and cuddle with me tonight” baskets. And then I remember, I’m not in those pants sizes my twenties anymore and putting up with that kind of behavior is like ordering a drink at the dj booth; one of you looks stupid and the other person is just upset that you interrupted mediocre danceclub remixes.

If we’re being honest, men rarely attempt to commit to something great until it either starts dating his best friend or literally fucking dies. Like, there’s no in between. Either you play the game, or you lose your marbles…and then the will to live. I wish the ability to drive a sane woman to utter mental chaos took the same amount of effort it does to knowingly start following “Senorita Assclap” and liking three hundred of her photos on Instagram. Men are actually so dumb, that these kinds of public displays of idiocy are no match for their judgment.

Fun social media Fact: if a guy likes even two of my photos (usually one from this year and one from THE DEEP ARCHIVES) every girl knows he’s down to pound. So, save us all the feed space and wear a shirt that says “I need attention from multiple women at once or I struggle to function.” And thennnnn, we know not to fucking date you.

Not that the fair-warning will keep us from trying.

“Do the best you can until you know better, and once you know better, do better”.

Aint that right Maya Angelou? That saint of a woman also said “there is no greater agony than baring an untold story inside of you” and I honestly, I haven’t felt so connected to a dead person since Tupac’s hologram at Coachella 2012.

I digress…

There is a golden virtual rule and it goes something like this: don’t give off the illusion of having many choices because it will make it harder to find viable options.

The truth is, just cause you’re not doing anything that- bad doesn’t mean you’re doing anything that-good. This isn’t a by-default world.

Gentleman, I’ll have you know that when us women spiral, we spiral hard and if you think that social media is safe from investigation leading into interrogation and followed by 4 years of blocking- no parole…you’re mistaken. We know what you did last summer, last night, and it wouldn’t be too far off to assume that we already know what location you’ll be tagged in, blurry and unphased, by lolitagirl69’s tag marker next weekend. This is a social media world, and we’re all just living in brief moments of social engagement vs true persona.

Lastly, to my fragile and semi-broken ladies…get you a man who doesn’t just like your social media presence infrequently amongst a sea of other thirst traps, but actually appreciates the filter-less depth of the real and authentic (as crazy as you are) you. Because, remember, that everything is cool until it just isn’t anymore. Think, LimeWire. Think, The Harlem Shake. Think…Instagram in literally two years. #wastedthirties #literally #figuratively #whyarehashtagssomuchgoddamnfun

Scale Jail

Scale Jail

My fitness goal has always been to get to the weight I lied to the the DMV about. Cute cops always check your eye color and lb’s. If you know me, you know how often I get pulled over and frankly I’m waiting for the day some badge-crab tells me I need to update my drivers license because 110 was clearly my birth weight. 

I updated all of you on my lack of numerical success after I finished my Whole30, and I’m back to the blog to admit that scale victories are a bigger waste of time than trying to get my ex to love me again. 

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Sometimes I forget that the most important relationship, the one between me and that number on the scale, is more private than anything I’ve ever held on to. One time, at a bar, a guy told me he could ‘guess my weight’. I was so in awe of his blatant lack of social normalcy that I almost let him throw me a digit. And then I stopped him. Cause either, I was going to be super offended or he was gonna seem incredibly ostentatious. Neither of which I had any desire to babysit amidst whiskey shot number four.

img_7145I still think back to that moment. It had such a make it or break it force behind one tiny guess. A complete stranger had that much power over me in those seconds of defining my head to toe appearance with a number. The wrong one, and I probably would have stopped eating forever. img_7146
But, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about how much I weigh? Unless you’re hell bent on postaging my body for sending somewhere, I think it’s safe to say that this number goes with me to the grave. Unless grave’s are base-cost determined by weight, in which case it goes with me to right before the grave.

One of the greatest things I’ve learned the past two months is that the less expectations you have of yourself, the more surprised you get to be when things change before your eyes. All of the fitness blogs these days are about ‘goals’ and honestly, my goal is to just not be who I was before. Of course, that’s even an expectation sometimes out of reach.

I had a literal melt-down last week and cried directly into a donut. Like, straight up stared at it, knew it was gonna win, cried about the potential of defeat, and then ate the soggy bastard like the glazed sin we all know it is. I blamed my period, my period blamed me. It was a vicious cycle. I had beat myself up for nearly three hours, fell off even further because I was depressed about the original mess up, and then I went dress shopping this weekend and slid into a size 6. A SIZE MOTHER FUCKING SIX.

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That my friends is what I like to call over-reacting. I’ve been so amazingly good to my body for the past 8 weeks and in my unstable and often debilitating mind I assumed that one (or two) mistakes reversed everything I had been so hard at work on because the number wasn’t moving, the cravings weren’t subsiding, the guys at the bar weren’t begging me to guess my weight…

Non scale victories are the battles we want to be winning. Our clothes fitting better, more energy, improved endurance, feeling healthy. Society feeds us these warped perceptions of what is right, and frankly I can’t afford to keep obsessing over a number that nobody else will ever know. I’ve been busy waiting for a weight loss and while the scale wasn’t changing, my body was.

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6/17/18

 

The Great Depression

The Great Depression

The other day I left work because I couldn’t breathe. I’m not asthmatic, I don’t suffer from anaphylactic allergies, but I do live with occasional debilitating depression, and that was enough to knock the wind completely out of my Wednesday.

I sat in the locker room and tried two separate exercises I had read about online. First, I’d put my head between my knees, breathe in for five seconds, hold for three, and breathe out for seven. Secondly, when those lamaze techniques failed me…I’d walk the fuck out and cry for the entirety of my drive home. Ok fine, that second one wasn’t a Facebook-found life hack, but turns out, watering my lap was crucial to ridding my mind of its toxins.

Side note: I just googled how many fatalities came at the hands of a panic attack and turns out nobody has actually died from one.Could have fooled me.

I beat myself up for hours about not being able to keep myself together enough to function as an adult at a job that hired me to literally just not leave when I’m having a bad day interact professionally. I realized at the end of my panic attack, between my depression and now-guilt for having either of the fore-mentioned mental health glitches that I didn’t need to feel this way about needing a moment. And if that moment turned into a couple hours, which ended up being a whole day…I deserved it, no questions asked.

Im totally aware that when I was a teenager I wasted very undeserved time off on nursing a hang over on a Monday, or bowing out early to Vegas on a Thursday night. And I wish I could go back and tell the drunk and irresponsible me that I’d need those Karma points for half days off work when life might be too overwhelming.

Who am I kidding, 23 year old me would have just handed 31 year old me a beer.Point is, mental health days should be a thing. And as much as them being a thing, they should be advised, not taboo, and if it were up to me…paid time and a half mandatory.

Half of my coworkers would throw a fit if I showed up to work with a cough, but I don’t see any of them cheering me on for staying home when I have the “sads”. I’m aware that you can’t catch my depression, but I’m certain you’d want all the H1N3’s over this prison sentence anyway.

I have to admit that my supervisor and office manager were both super supportive about my premature exit mid week, but I fear that maybe some people with the same prevailing symptoms might not be so lucky. And in that realization, I worry that people sometimes forget that we work to live, we don’t live to work. Unless you’re Britney fucking Spears. We’re killing ourselves pretending every single day we wake up is a day nothing hurts. Being “on” without fail is unrealistic. And covering up the need for a day without added distractions with a “stomach bug” is equivalent to pretending that guns kill people; not the mentally ill. When people asked where I went on Wednesday, I told them I needed a mental health day. And I told them they should take one too if they ever feel like they’re neglecting themselves to the point of tears. In a world of hashtags like #fitfam I can only hope mental health, in its continuum, shows more and more improvement. Having a proactive approach to self care starts with finding ways to avoid work place break downs and providing ourselves the ability to take the time we need to appropriately function. Or else…

You down with BPD, yea you know me

You down with BPD, yea you know me

I hated the work books my therapist would have me add to my Amazon cart. They always came equipped with an “also purchased” display of herbal sleeping pills. Because people like me were insomniacs. They ate anti depressants in their cereal and kept a journal of poetry about their suicidal tendencies. They were also my friends and my family; people I’d never know weren’t firing on all cylinders. 

For a couple of years there I wanted everyone to walk around with a Hello My Name Is: Manic-Depressive sticker. Or Hello My Name was…is…used to be: Acute Stress Disorder, Body Dysmorphia Syndrome, Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. Like the dumb little avatar Sims characters or everyone’s mom at their first PTA meeting. Something, anything to feel less alone. 

In my head, we all suffer. And in my search engine, I wasn’t too far off. According to google there are over 200 classified mental illnesses ranging from more common to less wide spread. All of them being a label that none of us want to wear; none of which any of us can diagnose on our own. 

“Mild to severe disturbances in everyday thought processes” sounds like an easy equivalent to any of my Mondays. But it’s the literal definition of a term that gets more bad publicity than our own fucking president. Mental illness is exactly what it sounds like; an illness of the mind and you wouldn’t walk away from a cancer patient, so where’s your empathy for a schizophrenic? 

It takes a real champ to stand up to their own unwavering ego. The voice inside our head that speaks at a painful volume with little remorse. When I was considering treatment for the diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (get this, it’s just a work book, some flash cards and a yoga membership) I toggled with the list trying to find one that sounded more concrete. Because BPD made me feel like I was labeling my ongoing incompetencies as a head cold and nobody would take me seriously; not even my own ego. 

Below are some of the signs and symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder: 

* Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment 

* A pattern of intense and unstable relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often swinging from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation) 

* Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self 

* Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating 

* Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days

* Chronic feelings of emptiness

* Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger

* Having stress-related paranoid thoughts

* Having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality

Maybe you check off one of these, maybe you feel deeply about them all. Or maybe you think I’m completely insane for being any of them. (Wait until we outline pedophilia for that kind of judgement). You don’t have to be sick to understand crazy. You just have to be open minded to the fact that it’s not a choice to be ill. It’s a choice to be critical and unapologetically unhelpful. 

All I know in this life is that your mind is a terrible thing to waste. It’s either working for you or against you. Those of us who are at war with ourselves have a never ending internal battle that should be externally acknowledged and offered a hand. Nobody fights a war alone, that would be silly. So is mental illness being more taboo than weed in the year twenty seventeen. 

You wouldn’t call the morbidly deteriorating leukemia victim “ugly”, so don’t call us crazy. Call us…more often. To break everyone of this stigma that mental health is a facade of a generation unable to express itself; an excuse to be absolutely out of control. Nobody chooses to wake up and be overwhelmed by their own existence. Your poorly chosen name calling and ignorance to mere science are triggers. 

Work smarter, not harder at how you speak to everyone you meet, know, and may already love. You never know which of the 200 are plaugung their thoughts daily. Or maybe it’s just me, and the rest of the world is perfect. Who am I kidding, that’s just my bpd speaking…

Accutanked. Month 2: My Accutane Journey 

Accutanked. Month 2: My Accutane Journey 

Today I announced to the office team that if I died in my sleep, I wanted to make sure I said out loud that I had been feeling weird all day. You know, for the record. For the coroner. For the person who couldn’t figure out why my cold body lay strung across my couch; two puppies licking me to, well…more death. 

Someone mumbled about me being on “those crazy pills” while another coworker reminded me that I lived alone, and that they’d be too busy to find my body for a few days, maybe even weeks. Thanks guys

It’s the end of month two of my Accutane journey and I’m not gonna lie, not as stoked as the first four weeks. For one, I’m getting some residual break outs. Ones that were not apparent for the first six weeks and I feel like those people who buy a product that looks pretty darn amazing out of the box and then it breaks on its second use. After they’ve already put a 5 star review on Amazon. After they’ve told all their friends about it. Yea, I’m looking at you Chop Wizard

In addition, I have experienced way too many side effects for my liking. 

  • Pain behind my eyes (headaches) 
  • Rashes on my hands and arms 
  • Tachycardia 
  • Severe chapped lips 
  • Irritability (I want to punch everyone’s babies) 
  • Weight gain

Ok fine, that last one isn’t the meds. I just recently found out about Sonic’s cookie dough shake and I CANT QUIT YOU. 

My face originally felt like a seal. Not the scarred up singer from the batman soundtrack (although, who knows what month 3 will bring me) but the ever so soft and slippery mammal that sits on rocks in the San Fransisco bay. I was so thrilled that I would successfully be able to apply a thin layer of foundation to a less than rough terrain of a face. And then things took a turn for the worse. I wake up everyday with my skin being patchy with dehydration. Additionally the rest of my epidermis must suffer. Down to my ankles. My FUCKING ANKLES

You know how when you have pain somewhere in your body and you take an aspirin, that aspirin just knows how to handle that spot. Like “ooo my tailbone hurts *pops pill* and boom, tailbone feels better. Then you get kicked in the shin so you take an aspirin and your shin starts to feel better. It’s like the medication KNOWS where to go. That’s what I wish would happen with accutane. Like, fix the skin on my face. No need for you to be jacking up the back of my arms, stupid. 

But, as luck would have it, this my life for another 120 days. Le sigh. I asked my doctor when the soonest I can stop would be and she said nobody goes off of it with mild symptoms until at least 150 days. And I’m only 60 in. Kill me. 

This is the price we pay for beauty kids. Beauty is legit pain. Pain in my head, pain on my skin, pain in my brain. But realistically, collectively both me and my doctor decided this reward was worth all of these risks based on how bad the acute onset of hormonal acne came on. I just didn’t know it had to get this bad to get that good. Like having sex with your ex, I’m just counting the minutes til I’m done. Hopefully this is just a “bad month” and I’m able to report month 3 as something of remission. Fingers crossed side effects subside and I can continue til the end of treatment. Or until it kills me. 

*insert frantic phone call from mom*