A Piece of Paradise: Taking Le Clown on a Tour of Le Denver

Well, hello there, attractive readers!

May I suggest you mosey on over to A Clown On Fire and check out this post on my city of origin, Denver. You won’t be disappointed. I spent a long time trying to capture the essence of this town, and I think I did a damn good job.

Also, if you haven’t followed Le Clown, do it. Seriously, what are you waiting for?

 

No, really. What are you waiting for?

Let’s Talk About Love

The kind you clean up with a mop and bucket, like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it.

Gross. I do not want to talk about that kind of love. Though, that song is my Karaoke song.

Love is the loftiest emotion humans can attain to, other than the comatose state post-Chinese food indulgence. It is the one thing most sought, used, abused, lost, conquered, and toyed with. Love is kind of a slut, is what I’m saying. It gets around.

Love has slept with every person on this album cover. And every member of every band, ever.

Part of my anxiety has always been whether or not people like me, and whether or not there was potential for them to love me. As a child, I would gaze wistfully into my father’s eyes and say, “I love you, daddy.”

And he wouldn’t respond.

I would look at him again. “Daddy, I love you,” I’d say, this time with a twinge of hysteria in my voice.

There are only so many times you can tell this face you love it before it headbutts you right in the nose.

My father’s expression would never change, but he would respond. He would look at me with passivity and say, “Whitney, if you want to know if I love you, just ask.”

I did want to know. I was desperate to know. I was constantly afraid of his disapproval and losing his love, and judging by the fact that I had to ask him if he loved me, I was probably losing it. Or at least being annoying as all get-out. And judging by the fact that now he refuses to talk to me, and when he does it’s vitriolic, I guess I have my answer.

As I got older and experienced the hilarity, insanity, and (oxymoronically) the most singular experience of being in love, I kind of got fed up with it. I became that single person who bemoans the idea of romantic love, instead frolicking in platonic and familial love. I love my friends. I love my family. I love my dog more than I love anything else in this world (besides chocolate chips). But I did not feel the absence of having a romantic love in my life. I had inadvertently sworn off the VD that is love.

And the herp that is the rom-com.

Perhaps it was because I did not like knowing that romantic love ends. Perhaps it was because I was used to even the familial bonds of love disintegrating into ashes of resentment and distrust. Perhaps it was because I realized that I date weird people. Whatever it was, I was freed from the desperation of looking for someone to spend my life with. I was freed from that desperation of going to bars and looking for soul mates (people do that, right?). I was freed from the desperation of feeling like I needed someone. I became perfectly self-sufficient and happy with my aloneness. It gave me time to write, and, more importantly, more time to walk around pantsless without fear of being judged. My singledom allowed me to get to know myself better than I ever have, and what I’ve learned is that naked booty dance parties are always more fun by yourself than with another person.

Recently, however, I’ve felt like the idea of falling in love is pretty grand. I’m not trying to force myself into it; I’m not even actively seeking it out beyond expanding my circle of friends. I just realized that love, like the Beatles and Viktor Frankl and Taylor Swift and Your Mom all talk about, is something truly amazing when it happens. And I’m okay with that, and I feel like for the first time in years, I’m no longer avoiding it. Love is no longer the person at the party that I notice and then immediately leave the party. Love is no longer the person that I text one-word responses with no punctuation. I’m not ignoring it anymore. I just don’t force it to hang out with me. Because that’s stupid.

That’s the thing about love: in any form, it’s pretty freaking awesome. But no one should seek out the romantic kind. Seeking love is like trying to find the one clean needle in a haystack full of hypodermic needles from the local hospital dumpster/medical waste farm (that’s a thing, right? It’s totally a thing): it doesn’t matter how close you look, you’re going to get jabbed by something unsanitary (that is so gross) and potentially dangerous.

There’s a dick joke in here somewhere, I know it.

No, I don’t search love out. Sure, I have an OkCupid profile and sure, Tinder cracks me up during my breaks at work when my coworkers and I play around with it–but I am not looking for my future soul mate, or even my future crush. I’m on the constant lookout to find new friends who can teach me things and join me on adventures. If I end up dating them, so be it. But I’d rather be your friend first than date you right away and realize you’re infected with the crazy or something.

Pictured: Infected with the crazy… Also, her hair isn’t that color anymore and she’s gained 40 pounds.

To conclude, as I probably should have done paragraphs ago, love is a many splendid thing. It lifts us up, all we need is love.

Oh wait, that’s Moulin Rouge.

Whatever. You get my point, right?

Sometimes I write for other blogs.

I know, I know, you hate me.

But the school year is winding down, and with it, my freedom (and burning desire, much akin to the syphilis I heard that people suffer from sometimes) to write is winding up. Soon, so soon, I will be posting my regular 3 times a week. I’m so excited I could pee everywhere. Maybe I just did a little bit.

In the time between February’s post and right now, a lot has happened. I have chosen a grad school and will be moving to the Hamptons (aka the faberge apple next to the Big Apple) and writing with idols of mine. Again, I just peed everywhere.

And then, a fellow blogger that I admire contacted me. Le Clown. The Clowniest of Clowns. The man. He emailed me. And I threw up a bit in my mouth (I’m sorry about so much relating to body fluid, I think I’m becoming a lot more like a twelve year old lately).

I wrote a blog for his new project, The Outlier Collective. It’s where bloggers “duel” it out over topics like getting Freshly Pressed or Sex or wearing Freshly Pressed Panties during Sex. Or something like that.

I wrote on the harsh realities of the Freshly Pressed award. I hope you read it, and I hope you like it.

Next week, tune into A Clown on Fire as I take Mr. Clownypants on a tour of Denver. Be prepared to pee your pants.

Necessary apparel for reading Highest Form of Whit, A Clown On Fire, or The Outlier Collective. One Size Fits All.

Mental Illness is No Laughing Matter

Except when it totally is.

For the majority of my life, anxiety ruled every decision I made. What to wear, how to put my clothes on in the morning, whether or not I would brush my teeth, who I talked to, where I sat in vehicles and at restaurants–I was never free from fear of the most ridiculous things.

Yes, like blueberries. Which I was terrified of and didn’t eat from ages 3-19.

And then I discovered medication. There is a stigma in this country against those with mental illness, and it’s the same stigma held for those who suffer from alcoholism: that our sickness is rather a weakness of will than an actual disease or problem. I can’t tell you how much that stigma makes me want to punch a baby in the face (a lot, and I kind of like babies. They’re cute and defenseless. But they poop too much) because it encourages a lot of conversations like this:

Random Person: Oh, you take medication? Why?
Whitney: I have an anxiety disorder.

Random Person: That’s not a real thing. I don’t believe in medication. I believe that with some serious meditation and focus, you wouldn’t have any anxiety at all.

Whitney: Fuck you up your nose.

Random Person: What?

Whitney: I tried hypnotherapy. I tried normal therapy. I tried psychotherapy. I know how to meditate. My disorder is a defect in my brain. It’s a genetic malfunction. It’s like being born with an extra limb. Would you tell me to “meditate” my extra limb off? Would you tell me to “focus” on not noticing that limb until it went away? Also, do you drink or smoke weed?

Random Person: I don’t see what that has–

Whitney: THAT’S ALTERING YOUR BRAIN LIKE MEDICATION YOU ASSHOLE.

WHYYYY ARE YOU SO STUUUPIIDDDDD

I have that conversation a lot, or variations of it. It’s important for everyone in this country (and the world) to recognize that mental illnesses are illnesses, like cancer, tuberculosis, diabetes, the flu, or thinking that the world is only 4,000 years old (that is also a mental illness). Would you tell your friend with diabetes or a person with AIDS to just “meditate” their disease away? No. So don’t tell me that medication makes me weak, or that I’m not trying hard enough to rewire my brain so it runs properly. I have a mental illness. And I’m completely okay with that.

That stigma even runs in the community. There are those with mental illnesses who think that mine is a “phase” or a “weakness.” I had a rabid fan (read: troll/family member) email me to barrage me with insults about my disorder. He claimed I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder, which is a disorder that is extremely volatile and painful for those who suffer from it and the people in their lives. It’s a destructive disorder, meaning that the person who suffers from it sees the worst, they are dramatic, they are violent and angry and unpredictable. I am none of those things, but this troll emailed me to belittle me with another disorder. The terrible thing is, this person suffers himself from mental illnesses. The complete disgust that I felt when reading one person with an illness insult another person using an illness from the same group is terrible. It would be like a person with skin cancer arguing with a person with breast cancer, and the person with breast cancer wished testicular cancer on the other. It’s an intertwined cruelty, and this troll should be aware of that. The email left me anxious and upset, and after meditating and ruminating on my treatment, I felt relieved.

See what I did there? I MEDITATED.

The problem is, occasionally I forget that I suffer from a disorder. My medication has allowed me to live a normal, healthy life, and when things start getting cray-cray up in my bray-bray (“brain”), I tend to freak out even more, because I forget that I have this disorder sometimes. That’s how well my medication works for the most part.

A month ago, I was under high stress. I applied to a zillion grad schools for MFA programs, which cost an arm and a leg and my firstborn child. Work was stressful because our school isn’t seeing literacy results, which is a DUH! moment because none of the literacy intervention teachers are licensed in literacy intervention, and us language arts teachers are (mostly) not certified at all. Our principal has been bearing down on us, which makes sense, but is a little too much. The fate of our school rests in our hands and the test results our students have when state testing comes around. My mom broke a dentist bill to me–a whopping $618–two days before it was due, and my dog’s cataract got worse and he also had this weird growth, costing me $145 at the vet.

I am terrified about going broke or being in poverty. That fear is called Peniaphobia and I still suffer from it. Let me just state now that, uh, I’m not close to that line and probably won’t be unless my chocolate habit develops into something way more serious and I no longer have family or friends because I’ve abandoned them and dedicated my life to Willy Wonka’s factory.

I don’t keep any in my house, because I’d binge on it and be in the corner of my house, blinds closed, sobbing with chocolate all over my face and fingers. It’s not a pretty sight.

I started having panic attacks again. All the time. I was spazzing out at work because the littlest things frightened me. I stopped hanging out with people. I cried a lot (and I don’t cry, unless I’m reading a book or watching a movie). Then, I hit my breaking point.

After a session of professional development after school, I was exhausted and ready to go home. The problem was, I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. They weren’t in my backpack, they weren’t in my coat, they weren’t in the storage bin behind my desk, or on the floor. They weren’t in the parking lot or the hallways. Or in the room I just left. I had no idea where they were.

Now, let me say that I wasn’t really that upset about car keys. I had an extra pair in my car (smart) and an extra key to my house hidden somewhere safe. I was upset because the last really meaningful present (or first meaningful present, if you want to get technical) that my father gave me is on my key ring. It’s his Harvard class ring, and when I was growing up I never saw him without it. My freshman year of college he gave it as a sign of reconciliation and I cried when he gave it to me. He is no longer on speaking terms with me, but I hold that ring every day and think about the man who loved me when I was young.

Hi, dad. How are you? You good? I love you. K. Good talk.

As I looked around and couldn’t find it, my panic grew. I hyperventilated. I cried. I almost vomited. The principal started looking for them. My lead teacher and her best friend started looking for them. I had figured out that I left them in the copy room, but we couldn’t find them anywhere. I left the building, sobbing, to check near my car again. No dice.

I came back in, and our principal had been emptying my backpack. Tears streamed down my face and I said, “I still can’t find them.”

She replied, “Well, they’re not in you’re backpack.” I broke down in hysterics.

She had called the secretaries and neither of them reported finding my keys, but she checked their desk drawers anyway. The first drawer she opened held my keys, and I started sobbing even harder.

This was me. I am ashamed.

Then comes the part where I started laughing hysterically afterwards once I calmed down. The principal, an Amazon standing 6’2″ with a loud voice, funny stories, and a very powerful demeanor, came over and hugged me. She pressed my head to her chest and told me it was all okay, and I sobbed into her. It was probably the lowest point in my existence but also one of the funniest.

Afterwards, I called my mother and retold the story of the day. My mom laughed. “Whitney,” she said, and I could just picture her shaking her head,” Whitney. You have an anxiety disorder. Call your psychiatrist.”

I went, “Oh, yeah!” and I phoned my psychiatrist at 9:00 pm, because I am scared of dialing phones and I had to talk myself into it. I left a voicemail describing my symptoms and my emotions and what I wanted to do. In less than a half hour, he called me back and we agreed to raise my dose by 50 mg, an almost insignificant amount.

That’s another thing about mental illnesses and those who suffer from them and their care-takers: we are as close as chronically ill patients are with their doctors, because our illness doesn’t just go away. There is no cure for Schizophrenia. There is no cure for Bipolar Disorder, or Generalized Anxiety Disorder. There is only treatment. They are chronic illnesses, but they are manageable.

And I managed the heck out of it, thank you very much.

New Year’s Resolutions: Haikus

I threw my back out
day two of twenty-thirteen:
ahead of schedule

I promised myself
I’d stop eating my feelings–
but I’m just so sad

Dear Ms. Emma Stone,
email me A-S-A-P
so we can be friends

Dear JaVale McGee
I would like to talk to you
re: our best friendship

 

 

New Year’s Resolutions: Tips To Follow To Fail Spectacularly.

Ah, yes. It’s that time of year again. What time? You ask, your head tilted slightly to the side like the adorable puppy you are. Well, stinker, it’s that time of year when we all make resolutions to become a better person, and then proceed to take a massive dump on them about three weeks later.

My resolution was to stop eating socks. OH GOD IS TODAY OVER YET?!

In the spirit of the season, I’ve decided to write a list of ways to fail spectacularly at all of your resolutions, in the hopes that you will do the exact opposite of what I prescribe. Or at least, try them and then realize you’ve been doing them your whole life. Either way works for me.

Step Number One: Go Big Or Go Home
To begin failing at your resolution before you have even started, I suggest you make grandiose statements that are impossible to follow through on, because you’re a real person with a real life, and doing these things takes effort. Examples include: This year I will lose 10 pounds! (A classic, as witnessed by the hundreds of people who will be in the gym January, but magically disappear by February 1st, having given up and resigned that that bag of cheetos looks more in shape than they will ever be); This year I will pay my taxes EARLY! (Good luck on that one, sucker); This year, I am going to hike every 14-er in Colorado and become vegan and be nice to my parents and make some friends finally!; Or, my favorite, “This year I will fall in love.”

Those are HUGE, overarching resolutions that are going to be near impossible to maintain. So if you want to fail right away, I suggest resolving to do one of the above things.

My resolution that fits this category: I WILL WRITE MY BOOK THIS YEAR! STARTING RIGHT NOW.

Step Number Two: YOUUUU SHALL NOT EAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT.

THIS LOOKS SO GOOD I’M DROOLING… said no one, ever.

This one is particularly important if you want to fail. Make a lofty goal, like “I will stop eating processed sugar.” Then, stop immediately. You will probably be eating chocolate chips in about thirty seconds flat. At least, that’s what I did. Our bodies aren’t programmed to give up things like that so easily. What will happen instead is, you will work out for the first time in six years, and then want to reward yourself. As a reward, you will have two chocolate chips. Then, you will feel so guilty about eating those chocolate chips that you will eat ALL OF THE CHOCOLATE CHIPS EVER, so as to mitigate your guilt. Our body totally pulls reverse psychology tricks on us, so definitely stop cold-turkey whatever bad food habit you’ve been nursing your whole life (mine, ironically, is eating cold turkey).  That will ensure that you will be back in that habit before today is over. And that might be a record for breaking a resolution! That’s pretty awesome.

My Resolution That Fits This Category: I hereby pledge to only eat food that is the color Jade. This will ensure that I’m healthy, and that my body will be rock solid. Oh, hells yes.

om nom nom nom…

Step Number 3: Making Friends and Influencing People

A great resolution to break almost immediately has to do with other people. We all know those resolutions: This year, I will make more friends. This year, I will make any friends. This year, I will get that restraining order lifted. This year, Emma Stone will finally notice me and then decide she is wildly bisexual and seek me out to go on a date (here’s hoping she googles herself).

DEAR EMMA, PLEASE EMAIL ME AT HIGHESTFORMOFWHIT@GMAIL.COM or introduce me to any sassy lesbian friends you might have. Kthxbye

We make these resolutions all the time. Which is awesome, because they’re super easy to break. You know why they’re super easy to break, little puppy friend?

Why, Whitney?!

Because they rely a lot on other people. You can’t make more friends if you’re an unquenchable douchebag (God, that phrase is so awful. I’m so sorry). You can’t get Emma Stone to go on a date with you if she doesn’t know who you are. These resolutions are so easy to break because they rely on the unreliable concept of other people’s willingness to deal with you.

Just kidding, that was harsh.

My Resolution That Fits This Category: GO ON A DATE WITH EMMA STONE!! Or just become great friends. Probably that one. BE GREAT FRIENDS WITH EMMA STONE!!!

All in all, the easiest way to break a resolution is to make it without acknowledging who you are as a human being. I will never be great friends with Emma Stone because I am an intolerable nit-whit who relies heavily on the internet for her social interactions. I will also never exclusively eat Jade green foods, because, fuck it–that’s too hard. I also won’t write my book this year, because it will take longer than a year to write and that’s way too broad.

The easiest way to follow a resolution is to focus it inward. You are the only person who controls your reactions, what you eat, who you hang out with, etc. You are the only person responsible for your health, mental well-being, laughter, emotions, food, and fashion sense. If you resolve to make more friends, you should probably resolve to stop overreacting and start controlling how you respond to people. If you resolve to lose two pounds this month, you should focus on projecting positive self-worth instead of saying what is wrong with you or what needs work. If you resolve to eat only jade green foods (God help you), you should invest in some quality food and quality food-dye.

What I’m saying is, you are in complete control. Don’t ever surrender to that little bastard voice inside of you that tells you you can’t. That’s not the real you. The real you is the one following this blog, laughing with me, and trying to hook me up with Emma Stone.

Happy New Year, friends.

This is pretty exciting stuff: 2012 in review (THANK YOU, READERS!!!)

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 28,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 6 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.