Let's Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir by Jenny Lawson
My doctor was extremely tactful when she diagnosed me with anxiety disorder. So tactful, actually, that it wasn’t until several visits later that I finally realized that that was what I had. She was blathering on about a patient who sounded to me like a total nutcase. I wasn’t really paying attention to her talking about anxiety disorders because I was too busy wondering whether she’d consider it a step back in my therapy if I hid under the couch while we had our sessions. Then I suddenly realized that the crazy person she was talking about was me. I assume she was hesitant to give my condition a name before then out of fear that I’d be ashamed of having a genuine mental disorder. But in all honesty, I felt relieved. Now instead of being “weird,” my inability to carry on an appropriate conversation was suddenly labeled a “painfully devastating and incurable medical disability that torments both the victim and those around her.” By me, that is. My doctor, on the other hand, refers to it as a “minor disorder easily treated with medication.” I suspect, however, that if she were ever forced to have a conversation with me at a dinner party she would agree that my definition is far more accurate than hers.
During dinner parties or social events I usually say hello to the hostess and then hide in the bathroom until the party’s over. It’s usually best for everyone involved. I used to read books about people who were naturally good conversationalists, and I’d wonder why I couldn’t just be innately confident and charming while relating humorous anecdotes about my time spent with Jacques Cousteau. Frankly, I suspected that even if I had ever met Jacques Cousteau, I would still be a bad conversationalist. Most party conversations start with me safely nodding along to whatever dull bit of nonsense someone is talking about, and then a few minutes later I panic because the same person asks me what I think about whatever I wasn’t paying attention to, and I hear myself blurting out the story of the time I accidentally swallowed a needle. Then I explain how it probably wasn’t actually a needle, but that I’d thought it was at the time, and then the silence gets louder and louder and I can’t stop talking about how terrible it is to not know whether you’ve swallowed a needle or not. And that’s when I notice that the room has gone completely silent except for the now-slightly-hysterical sound of me trying to find an end to a story that doesn’t even fucking have one. Then I just physically force myself to stop talking, and (after several awkwardly painful seconds of silence) someone else will change the subject and I can slink away to hide in the bathroom until it’s time to leave. And this is the best-case scenario.
On more than one occasion my panicked ramblings were so horrific that everyone was rendered speechless, and the silence got more and more palpable, and in desperation I just blurted out my credit card number and ran to the bathroom. I did this both because I hoped that yelling random numbers would make the baffled spectators suspect that I must be one of those eccentric mathematical geniuses who is just too brilliant for them to understand, and also because I felt a bit guilty for making them have to listen to the whole “I may or may not swallow needles” story, and if they wanted to charge their wasted time to my credit card then they now had that option. Except that I’m not actually good with numbers at all, so I can never remember my real credit card number and instead I just make up a random string of numbers. In short, some random strangers are paying for my shortcomings because I have a bad memory. And because I can’t carry on a conversation like a normal human being. And because identity fraud is so lucrative. So basically, we all lose.
I assume this must be quite confusing for people whom I’ve communicated with only via e-mail and texts, since I can actually come across as reasonably witty and coherent in e-mail, because I have time to think about what a normal, filtered, mentally stable adult would write before I press “Send.” This is why I prefer to talk to people only electronically. I’ll write up an e-mail and then ask myself whether normal people would bring up the fact that Lincoln died from a lot of people sticking unwashed fingers into his bullet hole, and then I’ll convince myself that they don’t, and I’ll also take out the part about how vegetarians are allowed to eat human placenta because no animal died for it, and then I’ll be left with a tight little e-mail that just says, “Congratulations on your baby!” which is much more bland, but is also something I’ve totally heard normal people say before, so it seems safe.
A lot of people assume I’m comically exaggerating this point, but the only people who really think that are the people who don’t have an anxiety disorder. The rest of you are nodding your head in agreement because you, too, have been stricken by this rather shitty disorder that makes an e-mail conversation (which should take only minutes) stretch on for hours of rewrites.
For example, here’s a reenactment of the work that went into a simple e-mail conversation with my coworker Jon this morning:
Jon: I just wanted to email all of you to let you know I won’t be into work today because we have to put our beloved dog to sleep.
Me: Jon, my heart is with you today. Attached is a copy of Rainbow Bridge, and a small poem by Maya Angelou.
Jon: This is exactly what I needed. How did you know?
Me: I know how hard it is to say goodbye.
In short? It is exhausting being me. Pretending to be normal is draining and requires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax. In fact, I should probably charge money to all the normal people to simply not go to your social functions and ruin them. Especially since I end up spending so much money on sedatives to keep my anxiety at least slightly in check, and those expenses are not even tax-deductible. Still, it’s worth the personal expense, because being drugged enough to appear semicoherent is preferable to being treated like an unwelcome polar bear at a dinner party.
See that last sentence? A sane, rational person would have written “an unwelcome guest at a dinner party,” but not me. I started to write “unwelcome guest,” and then my brain said, “Hang on. What’s even more un welcome than an unwelcome guest? A fucking polar bear.” Then the normal, slow-to-intercede, good side of my head comes over and says, “No. No one is going to get that. Just write ‘guest’ instead.” Then the bad side is all, “Really? Because it makes total sense to me. If an unwanted guest shows up at your party the worst thing that’ll happen is maybe you’ll run out of Tostitos early. If a polar bear shows up at a party there’s going to be blood everywhere. Polar bears aren’t welcome ANYWHERE.” And then the good side would smile patronizingly and sigh, saying, “No one understands your logic, asshole. And also polar bears are welcome some places. Like zoos. And Coke commercials.” But the bad side of my mind isn’t having it and he’s yelling, “The cage at the zoo is there to keep them from us. BECAUSE THEY’RE UNWELCOME,” and then the good side is all, “Well, if you hate polar bears so damn much then why did we go to the zoo on Saturday?” and the bad side is all, “Because you promised me a blow job, you condescending bitch,” and then the good side just gasps like she can’t even believe the bad side would even go there, because that shit’s supposed to be private, bad side, and she gets all sullen and sanctimonious and maybe we should just leave now because this whole thing is uncomfortable, and why does this feel like domestic violence? And also how can the bad side of my mind even get a blow job? Is it a dude? This whole thing is confusing, and feels somehow sexist. See, if I were trying to impress you I would have deleted this whole paragraph and just changed “polar bear” to “unwanted guest,” but I’m leaving it all out there because I’m too lazy to erase it. And also to show you the difficult truth about the pain of living with a mental illness. Mostly that first part, though. And basically this entire paragraph is what it’s like in my head all the time. So, yeah. It’s a goddamn mess in here.
I thank God, though, that I do at least possess the good side of my brain, because I once had a neighbor who lost the impulse-control part of his mind in a car accident and would randomly yell strange things at me when I’d go check the mailbox. Things like “Hi, pretty lady! Your butt is getting bigger!” and “I’d still plow that
In a way it’s a gift to be able to recognize your faults, but in real life I find myself saying terrible things to people, and the part of me that recognizes how inappropriate what I just said was screams at me, “No! We don’t talk about vibrators to clergymen!” Then I get distracted by all the screaming going on in my head, and I panic and here come the credit card numbers again. Or I’ll blurt out something else to fill the awkward silence, but for some reason the part of my mind that doesn’t have a filter can think only about necrophilia, and the part of my brain that recognizes that necrophilia is never an appropriate topic yells, “NECROPHILIA IS BAD,” and so then I panic and hear myself start talking about why necrophilia is bad, and the part of me that is slightly sane is shaking her head at myself as she watches all the people struggle to think of an appropriate way to respond to a girl at a cocktail party who is against necrophilia. I feel sorry for those people. Not just because they have to be there to witness that train wreck, but also because who is going to disagree with the evils of necrophilia? Nobody, that’s who. And if you try to change the subject it’s just going to look like you’re a secret proponent of necrophilia who just doesn’t want to admit it in public. That’s probably why, when I’m speaking to groups at dinner parties, those people slowly back away to join any other conversation, and I end up standing alone and talking to myself. Which is awesome. Because if there’s one thing more awkward than a girl talking to strangers at a cocktail party about sex with dead people, it’s a girl at a cocktail party talking to herself about the exact same thing.
This is why whenever I see disheveled homeless people on the street, screaming to no one in particular about how bears are evil masterminds trying to take over the city, I immediately assume that years earlier they’d found themselves discussing this subject at a dinner party, horrified themselves into a complete mental breakdown, and then everyone else just wandered away. And now here this homeless woman is, years later, still trying to find a way to wrap up this conversation with dignity and failing miserably. This is why I always give homeless people a dollar and some Xanax. Because I know exactly what they’re going through. Also, I like to nod and try to add something to the conversation, like “It’s an interesting theory, however, I’m not sure whether bears have the cognitive ability to create a complex system of government,” but usually the person I’m talking to just stares past me, fixated on a long-gone horrified audience that now exists only in her head. Then my husband will pull me away, lecturing me about the dangers of provoking the homeless. He doesn’t see what I see: the desperate face of a person who has been driven mad by a dinner party.
You would think Victor would be more sympathetic, since he’s actually witnessed the emotional devastation I leave behind when forced to mingle, but until only recently he had dismissed my ability to completely destroy both our reputations in a single dinner party as an overexaggeration on my part. I can only assume that he placed so little importance on my inability to deal with social situations because (a) my actual anxiety attacks were so severe that in comparison my social awkwardness seemed mild, and (b) he just wasn’t paying that much attention.
And to be fair, the anxiety attacks are much more disturbing to watch, and I’m very lucky that the worst of them happen only a few times a year. One moment I’m perfectly fine and the next I feel a wave of nausea, then panic. Then I can’t catch my breath and I know I’m about to lose control and all I want to do is escape. Except that the one thing I can’t escape from is the very thing I want to run away from . . . me. And inevitably it’s in a crowded restaurant or during a dinner party or in another state, miles from any kind of sanctuary.
I feel the panic build up, like a lion caught in my chest, clawing its way out of my throat. I try to hold it back but my dinner mates can sense something has changed, and they look at me furtively, worried. I’m obvious. I want to crawl under the table to hide until it passes, but that’s not something you can explain away at a dinner party. I feel dizzy and suspect I’ll faint or get hysterical. This is the worst part, because I don’t even know what it will be like this time. “I’m sick,” I mutter to my dinner mates, unable to say anything else without hyperventilating. I rush out of the restaurant, smiling weakly at the people staring at me. They try to be understanding but they don’t understand. I run outside to escape the worried eyes of people who love me, people who are afraid of me, strangers who wonder what’s wrong with me. I vainly hope they’ll assume I’m just drunk, but I know that they know. Every wild-eyed glance of mine screams, “MENTAL ILLNESS.”
Later someone will find me outside the restaurant, huddled in a ball, and lay their cool hand on my feverish back, trying to comfort me. They ask if I’m okay, more gently if they know my history. I nod and try to smile apologetically and roll my eyes at myself in mock derision so I won’t have to talk. They assume it’s because I’m embarrassed, and I let them assume that because it’s easier, and also because I am embarrassed. But it’s not the reason I don’t talk. I keep my mouth closed tightly because I don’t know whether I could stop myself from screaming if I opened my mouth. My hands ache from the fists I hadn’t realized I’d clenched. My body shouts to run. Every nerve is alive and on fire. If I get to my drugs in time I can cut off the worst parts . . . the shaking involuntarily, the feeling of being shocked with an electrical current, the horrible knowledge that the world is going to end and no one knows it but me. If I don’t get to the drugs in time, they do nothing and I’m a limp rag for days afterward.
I know other people who are like me. They take the same drugs as me. They try all the therapies. They are brilliant and amazing and forever broken. I’m lucky that although Victor doesn’t understand it, he tries to understand, telling me, “Relax. There’s absolutely nothing to panic about.” I smile gratefully at him and pretend that’s all I needed to hear and that this is just a silly phase that will pass one day. I know there’s nothing to panic about. And that’s exactly what makes it so much worse.
Those are the painful days that I think distort Victor’s view of just how badly I deal with people. They’re the days when I’m certain he thinks that a little anxiety-induced social awkwardness is really nothing in comparison to a full-blown attack. And then I have to prove him wrong.
Case in point: This weekend Victor took me to a Halloween dinner party for his coworkers. I’d reminded him beforehand that he was making a terrible mistake, because he’d seen over the years a few examples of me fucking up parties. But he patted my leg and assured me I’d be fine. It was exactly the same way he’d patted our cat reassuringly right before we’d had it euthanized. It was not reassuring.
The drive to the party was long, which worked against me, because already the sedatives I’d taken were wearing off, and it gave me more time to worry about our choice of costumes. We were dressed as Craig and Arianna, the Spartan cheerleaders from Saturday Night Live. When I’d bought the costumes I’d thought it was a pretty iconic pop-culture reference, but when Hailey’s babysitter arrived she’d had no damn idea who we were.
Victor and me as Craig and Arianna. One of us is not even fucking trying.
“You know? The Spartans? From Saturday Night Live?” I asked, trying not to let the hysteria seep into my voice as Victor (who had never wanted to be a male cheerleader in the first place and still hadn’t forgiven me for picking out the costume) just glared at
Still, Dani’s saucy ignorance of shit that was on TV before she was born was still fresh on my mind as we drove to the party. I tried to clear my head by reminding myself to not accidentally show people my vagina. This is not a usual worry for me; however, the cheerleader skirt was made of a clingy polyester material that kept riding up on my underwear whenever I moved, so rather than continually pulling down my skirt all night long, I’d decided it would be wiser to just go commando instead. I was still a little nervous about this decision when we pulled up to Victor’s boss’s house, though, and as we walked up the long driveway toward the large home I quickly whispered to Victor, “By the way? I’m not wearing any underwear.” He stopped in his tracks and furrowed his brow in undisguised panic.
“I’m not trying to seduce you,” I assured him. “I’m just telling you so that you would, ya know, be aware.”