How I Edit My Instagram Photos

My Brain and I: A Tragedy

I love pain. Emotional pain. It's pretty fucked up, to be honest. But a lot of times I purposely listen to sad music to dwell in the humanity singing (though painfully) in my chest. It reminds me I am alive.

Maybe it's because I barely cry. It's not that I don't want to (trust me, I've been dying to let some tears escape) but I've been on so many psychiatric pharmaceuticals since the age of eight that crying is, honest to God, a blessing.

I've been diagnosed with OCD, hypochondria, major depression, major anxiety, PTSD, cyclic vomiting, tics tourette syndrome and, tomorrow, will be tested for bipolar disorder (manic depression). Scientists would have a field day with my brain. Psychologists would revel in the wonders of my tainted neurons.

I'm fascinated with my mental hell(th) as well. It runs in the family. Truthfully, all of these illnesses sort of popped up on their own terms. My OCD was triggered after an event when I was seventeen years old, living with my eldest sister in Michigan, and after my mother and father didn't know what to do with me anymore. My hypochondria occurred sporadically after I saw my sister's best friend faint at Cedar Point (and, blast it, I can't ever go back because of it). Major depression and anxiety sort of go hand-in-hand, I suppose. My cyclic vomiting remains a mystery to this day; doctors couldn't explain it, and the illness is pretty much shrouded in mystery, but I'm convinced it was psychological. My tic makes me absolutely insane; a little noise I make in the back of my throat when I become anxious or restless.

And now, on my own terms, I'll finally be diagnosed with bipolar disorder. We've suspected it for a long time. I finally put my foot down. My last visit at the psychiatrist I brought it to the nurse's attention.

I twiddled with my thumbs but held eye contact. I'm very good at eye contact (ironically enough). Maybe it's because I've been pretending all my life.

"I've decided I want to be re-diagnosed."

The nurse, sporting a pale blue scrub, nodded and typed something into the computer. "We can do that. When do you want to schedule?"

Of course, I had work. I didn't know when I could make time for re-evaluating my mental stability. I had to get back with her. And now, as dawn draws near, and after I almost forgot about the entire circus, I'm recapping my history.

People ask me about sometimes.

And I know where to begin.

Where I Shop (and how I take care of my skin).

Your choice in dress says a lot about you.

I learned this from ma mere (my mother: a French-Canadian woman desperate to impress and, obviously, she always does). As a young woman, she was apart of the United Pentecostal church so linen and plaid dominated her closet.

If you know anything about UPC women, you'll understand that their choices are strictly limited and, very recently, they've altered the limitations: not for the better.

Their sleeves must reach the creases of their elbows. Makeup is forbidden, as is jewelry (besides your wedding band, of course). The popular style of hair is always very drastic, despite the modesty they showcase with jean skirts and plain, though frilly, blouses. ("The higher the hair, the closer to Jesus!")

So mama was forbidden to express herself in the way that she wanted to. In old photos, she sports pastel colors and bouffants high as heaven. Somehow, she pulled it off. I never understood how she did it, really. Maybe it was how feminine she was - how youthful. After all, she was barely twenty-years old when she had my eldest sister, Melissa.

They're Just Drivers (and I'm Just a Baker)

I've just been dropped off at word by a man whose daughter busted the window of his truck. Apparently she had moved to Seattle a couple of weeks before and the leg of whatever piece of furniture she was hauling penetrated the glass. 

He's in a white truck that requires way too much stealth for me to get into. I grasp the faithful handle in the interior door and pray I can get in without embarassing myself. I'm too short for this shit and I've told myself this for years. But despite the mantra, I've only grown maybe an inch since I was seventeen. 

I'm twenty-one now. I don't have a car...that's what I tell my Uber drivers anyway. But the truth is that I don't have a license. 

It's too embarassing to say. 

"You can get in the front if you want," the driver tells me. He's wearing a ball cap and displaying words of art on his arms. His truck is nice. 

But mama didn't raise a fool. I stutter that I'd rather sit in the back. He's fine with it. 

"Sorry about this whistling," he tells me. I never caught his name but I suppose I could just check the Uber receipt. "My daughter busted my back window." 

I turn. Sure enough, there's a web of black duct-tape protecting the truck from the outside elements. He tells me about the incident and then says, "Yep. My baby is in Seattle." 

He says that he doesn't want her to pay for the damage even though she offered to pay. I tell him he sounds like my dad. 

He laughs at this. I don't know why. It's one of those filler laughs that buttons up the silence. For the rest of the ride we talk about how his girlfriend speaks Spanish when she's pissed off at him. We also talk about his arm full of tattoos. 

"I got my first one when I was fourteen," he tells me. "In a guy's basement...drinkin' beer and smokin' weed." He smiles like he's in love with old memories. 

I don't blame him. I tell him that I'd be terrified of getting a tattoo from a needle I don't entirely trust. I ask him if it was a stick 'n poke. 

"No. It was a tattoo gun." 

He tells me that tattoos were illegal in Fort Wayne back then. I say, "Oh really?" as though I believe him. (Later I find out that, despite my uncertainty of truth to this, it was in fact illegal in Fort Wayne until the 1990's.)

It's hard to read Uber drivers. They're like a shadow in the background or an extra in a movie. They're just drivers. I try to tell myself they're people.