Wedding Themes

Since when, though, did you need a “theme” for a fucking wedding?  Like, really?

51pXUGzAqLLAdmittedly, I am kinda obsessed with this blog.  So, I vape and I “customize” the blog and I do wedding things.  Like mix our CD of “Our Soundtrack,” which is our DIY wedding favor (the theme of the wedding is music).  Since when, though, did you need a “theme” for a fucking wedding?  Like, really?  We can’t just have a pretty, classy, cool wedding without a theme?  Apparently not. So ours is music, specifically vinyl records.  Don’t get me wrong, all the things are not records, albeit it tempting.  Our guestbook is actual records with our wedding date and combined monogram for the record label.  People write with a sharpie on the actual records, which are framed!  The invitations are mock records!  How cute!  But seriously, how cute.  We live in Nashville, and are vinyl people.  By that, I mean that fiance has a bunch of records and I think it’s cool.  Also, I wear vinyl to the dungeon.  Anyway, our reception music is awesome.  Let me just say, Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is our recessional back down the aisle.  Enough said.

I Am Strung Out on Wellbutrin

download But not on purpose, it’s just that this dosage of Wellbutrin is like crack. Not that I would know………(I have been sober nearly 7 years).

Anyway, I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t come.  You heard me, I can’t have orgasms.  Well, not without some crazy fucking effort.

This is unacceptable.  At least the orgasm part is. 

WHY ORGASMS, WHY?  where have you gone?

Mentally, though, I feel great.  Back to normal, not depressed.  Physically, I feel like I am a zombie from lack of sleep, or I am crawling out of my skin.

Mentally, I am going, what was I worried about with the fiance? (See previous posts: “I lost a Piece of Him,” and “I Smoke & I Don’t Eat & I Lament”)

It’s just that the weight of the depression becomes so immense that I am deprived of perspective. Reality becomes distorted, and all that exists is my feelings, which range from intense sadness to anger to literally numb.

This is all because I quit my job, thereby losing my insurance to not-as-good insurance (cause my cobra was $800/month just for the medical for me alone!).  This took me far down the scale of antidepressants to those that are affordable – generic Wellbutrin – and, well, here I am. 

A cracked out zombie girl.  To be clear, it’s not the Wellbutrin, per say, it’s the side effects of th max dose of it that my brain needs to fucking be normal.  

So, I am trying to lower the crack-head-ness feeling.  I listen to Miles Davis, but mistakenly think  the “Birth of the Cool” album is actually what I consider “cool” jazz, but it is not. 

WTF MILES?  Why have you betrayed me?

I smoke cigarettes & I don’t eat & I lament.


I smoke cigarettes and I don’t eat and I lament.  I started smoking again because in a strange way it is something I can control, a decision I made, in a life that feels out of control.  It is the last night before my mother comes into town and my fiancé is not home, is late, from work.  For every sound of a car, the dog goes to the gate, expecting it to be him.

It is too hot to sit outside, but I sit outside anyway because I can smoke.

Today I told Fiancé I hated him-very politely-because he “likes” someone else.  (See previous post: “I lost a piece of him”).

He is the only person I know to take that in stride.

Today I thought about breaking up with him,

Today he got scared.  That I would leave him.

We talk and we talk and we talk and we come to no conclusions.  Neither side wants to give up anything, so we are at an impasse.

Therefore, I shove my feelings deep down inside and hope they will go away.

This creates a river of distance between us, with everything in between poisoned.

I read Lena Dunham’s book “Not That Kind of Girl” and feel that we have similar writing voice.  Or, maybe, I just hope we do.  I can relate to it because I have fucked a lot of guys I wish I hadn’t and because I have dated a lot of jerks.  This seems to be what the book is about so far, that, and being raped.  Which I don’t feel I can relate to, but I know that every other girl I know can.  Maybe I have just been too slutty in the past, I think.  I do like sex and lots of it, and also (In the past) with lots of people.  Now, however, I do not think I can even date someone else besides fiancé, even if he can.  I message the OKC guy I am talking to (the main one) and tell him “I am not built for poly, but would love to be friends.”  And that I am shutting down my profile for this reason, but give him my phone number in case he wants to contact me.  He doesn’t.  So far.  This is too bad, I think.  He was a nice guy.

Fiancé keeps bringing up Bladerunner (the original, as the sequel isn’t out until October), and the scene where Rachel makes a comment about someone (maybe Decker) having a picture of another woman hanging on the wall, “That’s not right,” she says, “She should be enough for him.”  Fiancé comments about how “dated” this ideology is and I partially agree with this.  I mean, I don’’t want to be someone’s whole world in which they have no one or nothing else, but I also think my love should be enough for him.  Poly theory has never spoken to me in the way it has to him, the idea that love is infinite and you shouldn’t just have to love one person romantically.  I disagree in the sense that something is lost, a specialness, when you romantically love more than one person.  Not that fiancé loves the other girl, but you get my point. 

I go to the psychiatrist and she seem to rely on my own self-knowledge, so I prescribe to up my Wellbutrin to 450 mg, which I think is the max dose. And to see her again in a month.  We were supposed to be lowering the meds today, as planned previously, in preparation for me to try to get pregnant.  But I do not have a job, or money, therefore, no trying to get pregnant yet.  The idea of having a child feels so far away from me, now.

Choosing The Life I Want

This is probably not good that I still relate to 20 something/millennial generation memoirs. 


I am obsessed with 20-something year-old girl’s memoirs.  Molly Crabapple’s “Drawing blood,” (which I guess, technically, she is older now, but not in the book); Marina Keegan’s “The Opposite of Loneliness,” (she is dead, but died at 22);           Lena Dunham’s “Not that kind of girl,” (actually, I haven’t read that one yet, because an early chapter freaked me out a little, but I still plan to); Melissa Broder’s “So sad today” (Ok, I just started that one and i actually have no idea how old she is).

This is probably not good that I still relate to 20-something/millennial generation memoirs. 

And how did they get enough life experience to write a memoir, or “book of essays” (or whatever) anyway?  While I am here on my fourth blog entry at like 37 years old?  Surely my drug-fueled, loose life has been more interesting?

Further, my former grad school’s email service sent me an email today-“Hello and congratulations on the successful completion of your degree, and beginning the next chapter of your career!”  Thank you, MavMail, for mocking me and the fact that I have done very little with my women’s studies master degree in the last seven years.

Fiancé and I are re-watching (for me) and watching for the first time (for him) “Buffy the vampire slayer,” and have gotten to season 6, a stand-along episode in which Buffy thinks she is in a mental institution and is told she has been there for the last 6 years.  Her whole life has been a delusion, “no she is not a vampire slayer because that’s crazy.”  First of all, this really fucked with me. I mean, I didn’t really remember this episode, or apparently take it seriously previously; but, this makes me feel like well, is that it, this whole show has been a delusion?  I mean, really?!  The episode ends (and is seriously unclear about which world is the delusion) in which Buffy decides to live in the world in which she is the slayer, but I wonder if it is a little like my whole life.  Maybe this is all one delusion.  Maybe I am not really unemployed, not-really-using any degree; but then again, maybe I just need to choose to life the life I want.

Losing a Piece of Him

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

Polyamory (Poly) (from Greek πολύ poly, “many, several”, and Latin amor, “love“) is the practice of or desire for intimate relationships with more than one partner, with the knowledge of all partners.  It has been described as “consensual, ethical, and responsible non-monogamy.”

I feel numb as I try on my wedding dress, after the alterations. 

Is it all meaningless?, I think.

I feel physically ill, but I smile at the seamstress and say “its perfect.”

The dress does look perfect, that’s true.

But how I feel is less-than-perfect, not-good-enough.

He likes another girl.

True, I agreed to poly, but it’s not what I would choose.

I am not saying you can’t play or sometimes fuck other people.  I am not crazy or unrealistic.

Emotional monogamy, however is another story.

When we fuck, I think, does he touch her like this? Does she like it?  Is she better than me?

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

I am already lost in this world, no job, no prospects, little family.  I have never lived in a city that feels like home.

Anxiety in one area of life bleeds over to the other.

I do not want another person, another guy, to touch me, to play, to fuck, to love me.

All I need is him.

Why am I not enough?

My best friend, Mr. NN says,what are you afraid of losing?”

I say, “I have already lost a piece of him.”

He says, “she’s already married”

I say, “I don’t care.”

He says “If you can’t do poly, that’s a big deal.  It will blow up sooner or later.”

It is blowing up.  It’s blowing up now.

He has negated our love.

He has drained the joy from me.

I vacillate between hate and love.

She thanks for me for letting her be with him.

I say, “You’re welcome” and I think, Like I have a choice in all of this.

I sink deeper into my depression.

He calls.  He says, “you sound better.”

Sure.  I am thinking, what am I even alive for?

I mean, really, what I am doing that’s worthwhile?


I am broken.

It is my fault, I should have broken up with him when I tried to the first time, for this very reason.

This thought creates a hole in my chest so large that I can’t breathe anymore.

I call him and cry, sobbing, he doesn’t answer and I try to leave a message, but I can’t talk.

I think about messaging all the guys I am talking to on OKCupid and say: “I am sorry, but I can’t do this.  This is a lie.”  This would be the real truth.

For the moment, I decide I would rather live in pain (in poly) with him, than without him, which makes me feel better than earlier, with the prospect of losing him entirely.  I would rather lose a piece than the whole of him.