So this is just meth, right?
My doctor, never surprised by my commentary, laughed, No, it’s not meth.
When she mentioned diet pills a few months ago, I was petrified.
All I can think about is Anna Nicole Smith…and that speech she gave…and she was wasted…and then she died. So there’s that.
As per usual, my doctor laughed at my ridiculous logic, No, I’m pretty sure Anna Nicole was on a lot more than diet pills.
And she was right – Anna Nicole was on all the fun stuff – chloral hydrate and valium to name a few. I had always felt connected to her in some way – not really the geriatric romance component, but maybe the wanting to break away from 'nothing' and become 'something,' whatever that ended up being.
You don’t have to decide today. Let’s keep doing the exercise and diet changes, get you sleeping better, and get your anxiety and depression stabilized before we talk about adding something else.
She’s been the only doctor I’ve had who seemed genuine; and if you’ve suffered from mental illness, you get this. Not all doctors are compassionate or even good at faking compassion, but she had been good to me from the beginning. I had expressed my concerns with addiction and suicidal ideation, and she had assured me she’d be there.
I did end up calling her office in distress a few times: Once) uncontrollable crying in a Lowe’s parking lot about Dead Husband; and Twice) feeling so completely overwhelmed with existing that I couldn't get hold of my brain.
I’d cried in that uncomfortable plastic chair several times on top of the distress calls, and she had assured me my feelings were normal, despite what I had told myself.
When it comes to grief, or any other emotion I consider ‘the weakest link,’ I feel guilty about my oversaturation. Of all emotions I’ve had in my life, the grief and guilt I felt after my husband died was unbearable: I had done unsavory things, not only to myself, but to others. I had even cried so often, an eye doctor warned me about damage to my eyes.
Damage? From crying? Is this from a Michael Bolton song? (Yes, that’s really what I said - and no, she did not laugh.)
No, it is rare, but it can happen. (The jury is still out on that one.)
But here I was today, finally agreeing to the diet pills.
It stimulates the brain, increases your heart rate; therefore, decreasing your appetite. Her hands waited patiently at the keyboard.
I sighed again. I thought. Hard.
I’m sorry; it’s just really hard for me, because – well, you know – he…and the meth and all, I rambled on about Dead Husband and mumbled something about Anna Nicole.
She let me know she understood, and I let her know I’d take a stab at the pills if she allowed me to call them ‘meth pills.’ She laughed and sent a Phentermine prescription to my pharmacy.
As I sat in the pharmacy drive-thru, Google really shed some light on the street value of Phentermine.
Hmmm, I could be fat and just sell it… I pondered.
Google after Google search was intense – some women claiming to have lost 30 to 50 pounds in just two months. But what about the loose skin? Would I have to have that shaved off? I hear that’s pretty fucking painful. Did Anna Nicole have that? I think she did. Maybe an infection as a side dish…I should re-watch her reality show…
I shook off the intrusive thoughts and paid $7.89 for the meth pills. I would start the next morning, Friday – fresh and ready to be hyper and disgusted by food. Less food, less thigh burning exercises, and more ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaaahhhs’ from New Husband.
Friday morning was orgasmic: the clouds were in full force, the temperature was dropping, my favorite sweatpants were mildly clean, and I had a wax appointment – and no, not for my upper lip.
Well, kind of.
My best friend had harassed me for years about the Brazilian wax – having it all ripped out, to grow back thinner and softer each time, to cut down from shaving 147 body parts to just 146. As lax as I am about my vagina, labia, and apparently everything in between, it surprisingly freaked me out.
So what you’re saying is I bend my legs, open wide, and they just – get all up in it?
Yes, but it’s amazing. I promise. You feel so clean and fresh – once you do it, you’ll be hooked, my best friend assured.
And. She was right.
My first appointment was awkward: 1) stripping like a drunk guy in front of the pretty esthetician 2) clumping my panties, pantyliner, and pants onto a chair right in front of her 3) exposing folds and creases under a bright light 4) worried the hot wax was turning me on and stuff was leaking out.
Those parts were actually fast and easy; she was super nice and did not comment on the wear and tear of my genitals.
Today was my second appointment. I popped my Phentermine, stopped at Starbucks, and arrived at my appointment. As I sat in the waiting room, I tried to think of…anything. My brain had stopped.
I stared at the receptionist playing on her phone, and began to think about hot wax.
I sipped the cold brew, but right after the swallow, I yawned; then I yawned again, and again, and again. I could not stop yawning.
Was the receptionist moving? Nah. She’s good.
Cimmone! the beautiful esthetician waved.
I followed her to the small, brightly lit room; she locked the door, and I stripped down.
Now, I need to tell you this – today is my first day taking Phentermine, and I’m not gonna lie – I feel wasted.
She laughed, Really? I thought it was supposed to speed you up?
Open wide and staring at the bright white lights, I closed my eyes, yawned again, and sighed, You know, I really was hoping this would work.
Maybe give it the entire day and see what happens.
I nodded, she was right, and damn, did that hot wax on an already tingling labia feel nice.
Okay, time for the butt strip and you’ll be done.
I pulled my knees to my chest, held my breath, and the wax went on – and the wax went off.
Talk about a great start to your day.
She oiled me up, took New Husband’s money, and I walked out of that office feeling like I had just been reborn – or maybe just a kid with no clue about period cramps and bad tampon applicators.
The seat warmer in the car was a nice touch to my freshly waxed undercarriage, and I chugged the Starbucks cold brew with passion.
As the day went on, my desire to exercise, to cook, or to do anything that required any energy whatsoever was just GONE.
Maybe I have ADHD? Is that how it works with Adderall? Maybe I had popped one or two at a few concerts, but the experience was less than memorable; I concluded this would be yet another entertaining conversation for my doctor.
Settling in for the night, fresh and clean from head to toe, I told New Husband I’d have to do this physical change organically – with the painful exercises, the rude gym mirrors who refuse to photoshop your thunder thighs, and not ordering cheese enchiladas with a side of queso just because I folded the laundry right out of the dryer.
He laughed. I know you can do it – even if it’s hard. When have you ever failed at something you’ve set out to do?
And he was right. I was in my head, again.
I mean, if I can handle meth pills and a butt strip without having an orgasm in front of a stranger – the sky is the limit, eh?