The World of Jojo

I Really Hate Myself.

Inb4 first world problems.

This is an extremely condensed/abridged version of my autobiography.

I hate myself. I have no idea why. I can easily say I’ve been depressed for  months. I don’t really understand the reasons in a logical manner. I have a therapist who acts like a gossipy suburban soccer mom, and I don’t feel comfortable talking to her. In fact, I lie about my life because I don’t feel comfortable talking about what I do or how I really feel about myself. The only reason why I’m still seeing her is because I’ve been going to her since I was 14, and I feel almost obligated to keep talking to her. I started going to a therapist at my school. I like him a lot. He’s really easy to talk to, and I feel a lot more comfortable with him. The problem is I’m graduating in May. Well, there goes my therapist…

I just want to explicitly say that I am not going to kill myself. To me, suicide is never and will never be an option. It’s too messy. I’m curious about the future (even though I’m living a cynical lifestyle right now).

When I graduate, I feel as if I’m expected to get a job almost immediately. I can’t work in retail. Working in retail traumatized me. I got some PTSD from it, and I haven’t found the methods to really get over it, so I usually just sit in a corner and cry. I hate people because of that. I’d really just like a cubicle. My own little space. Left alone.

But I crave fame, and even though I have the ability to be in that limelight, I’m too socially awkward to even pursue it. I have the talent, but I’m afraid nothing will ever come to it. I fear poverty. I come from a solid middle-class family. I will always have the mindset to save and obtain money.

I have so many things engulfing my life. Besides the bittersweet (if you can even call it that) graduation and job, I’m struggling with huge self image problems. Every day I look in the mirror and want to throw up. Sometimes I do. Bile is delicious at 9:30 in the morning, believe me. Now, while I understand the BMI system is very flawed, it’s the only weight/height rule that I know. I’m 5’ 0”. I should be 110 pounds according to the BMI. I weigh 168 pounds. The BMI claims I’m obese. Not overweight anymore, but obese. My personal goal is 120. I like having a little bit of meat on my bones. I find 110 and below to be freakishly thin, and I am not a fan of being that way. I know skipping meals and not eating makes my metabolism slow down and therefore makes me gain weight, but for some reason my brain says, “You’re too fucking fat. Don’t eat. Let starvation mode eat up your fat. You know you’re a lazy fuck and have no muscle. Starvation mode won’t effect it.” I take amphetamines to reduce my appetite to help me stop overeating. Thankfully I’m not addicted to them. I take them maybe once or twice a week. It’s helpful.

But I can’t concentrate in school. When I was 9, I was diagnosed with ADD. I took Ritalin, then moved on to Concerta. When I was 12, I was required to take another ADD test for middle school to prove that I had it so they could put me in a separate section for test taking and give me extended time. I got the extended time, but not for high school. See, when I took that re-test, I got a false positive (or a false negative…whatever it was) and I was required to take it again. When I did, I got the same results. So they told me I didn’t have ADD anymore.

Well, I’m noticing some things about myself that’s making me re-think that ADD thing. I unintentionally zone out while listening to a conversation with close friends. It’s not that the conversation is boring or not stimulating, I just can’t pay attention. In fact, I zoned out as I was typing some of the last sentence, and when I came back to reality, I had forgotten I had written that. This happens with books too. I’ll read something super interesting, but then zone out. Seven pages later, I come to and realize I had no idea what I read. So I read it over again…but the same thing happens, and I get to that same part seven pages later. I’m like, “What the fuck?” and have to start all over again. It’ll take me three hours to read 30 pages. In class, I’ll be listening to a really interesting lecture and have to take notes, but I zone out and 15 minutes later, I have no idea what’s going on and I start picking at my hair. I have an anxiety-related hair thing. I don’t pull out my hair like Trichotillomania, but I’m constantly nit-picking at my split ends. All the time. It gets worse when someone’s trying to speak to me (like my mother). I can’t concentrate on what’s going on and then I get yelled at for playing with my hair. I can’t help it. I tried going to the school’s counselor to get some ADD meds. Something like Adderall or something with stimulants. It would kill two birds (or all the fucking birds) with one stone: I’ll be able to pay attention, I can lose a shitton of weight, my fibromyalgia might go away or reduce, and I’ll have a positive body image. He spoke to the head of the department, and they agreed that because I’m a graduating senior, there would be no point in giving me a prescription because of time.

Anxiety controls my life. It’s true. I have what they call Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and it’s paired with the lovely Panic Disorder (PD). Basically with GAD, I’m afraid of fucking everything for no reason. I have bizarre phobias that prevent me from living a normal life. I have a fear of driving, so I try not to drive as much as possible (even though I have a license). I have a fear of bees (apiphobia) and wasps and any bug that flies and buzzes, so come summer time or warm weather, I won’t leave my house if I see any bees outside. I have a fear of large places. I have a fear of going to shopping malls with all those people (agoraphobia). I have a fear of escalators and stairs, so I always take an elevator. Whenever I take the elevator, people call me lazy all the time. Now, while I do have a lazy personality, the fact of the matter is I’m scared shitless of taking the stairs or escalator. My therapist who prescribes me my medication told me I had to “get rid of my fear” by going up and down an escalator or stairs 30 times. Yeah, I did that already and I was like, “HOLY SHIT! PANIC ATTACK CITY! FUCKFUCKFUCK!” Oh yeah, did I mention the fact I get panic attacks with anxious situations randomly all the time when I do things I’m scared shitless of? Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. I have a fear of meeting new people—even if they’re friends of my friends. I’m extremely socially awkward. I’m the socially awkward penguin meme through and through.

My weight and anxiety makes me have to take four medications: Xanax (anxiety, and I take as needed), Prozac (anxiety…but I haven’t been taking it because it negatively interacts with the amphetamines), Ambien (insomnia, and I take as needed), and Lyrica (fibromyalgia. My anxiety and weight causes inflammation in my body and makes my joints hurt randomly for no reason).

I’d really like to go home. I would. But I feel completely unsafe in my house. My parents are both crazy in their own unique way. My father had quadruple bypass surgery when I was 7 years old. Since then, I wasn’t allowed to have anything fattening in our house. Fat free milk, Smart Balance spread instead of butter, no real cookies, and my favorite one (sarcasm): no cheese (or rather, fat free cheese only). So it’s only natural that I eat all that shit now because I was completely deprived of it as a child (unless we went out to a diner. Then I could get all the whole milk I pleased). I wasn’t allowed to eat any kind of cheese from anywhere. In fact, pizza is my favorite food, and my father told me a wonderful story about why I shouldn’t eat cheese or pizza: “Jo, once I had a guy that worked with me—great guy. He’d have pizza all the time, every day. Then he got diabetes, and eventually he went blind. Then he died.” Throughout my life, I was never able to eat fast food on my own—unless he mentioned it as an idea for a meal. Then it was okay. Whenever I go out to eat and I need money for food, I ask my dad (hey, at least he helps me out a little in that respect). This is how the conversation goes:

Me: I need money for food.

Norm: Does it have cheese in it?

Me: No.

Norm: Good. How much do you need?

So basically, I have to lie to him in order to eat cheese. The man is obsessed with turkey burgers, sauteed onions, diet soda all the time (because, you know, it’s SO healthy for you), and grilled chicken. My therapist says if I followed my father’s diet, I would be considered an anorexic.

My mom, well, she didn’t really get too involved with my dad’s insane view of food and nutrition, but she’s starting to be a little bit more “health conscious.” Even though she isn’t allergic to gluten, she’s put herself on a gluten-free diet. So we don’t have as much bread in the house. Now, while my mom supports me “trying to get healthy,” but she has a tendency to be…well…a bit inappropriate with her language. I’m going to present for the second time at my school’s Undergraduate Research Conference. I thought I had proper attire for the occasion, but over spring break, my mom insisted I should go shopping for “better-fitting clothes.” I was like, “alright, whatever,” and kind of brushed it off. We went to Kohl’s that day, and I found a fancy shirt that I really liked. I tried it out, she wasn’t thrilled, but got it for me anyway—and the next size up. When I got home and tried it on, she told me, “You look like you’re expecting.” I was mortified. My own mother said I looked pregnant. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there awkwardly in front of the mirror and went, “Uhh…” and she goes, “What? Are you?”

Just for the record: no, I am not and have never been pregnant.

So she decided we should go shopping at the mall. The problem with shopping with my mom is that she’s pretty conservative when it comes to dress. I like things with designs, stripes, polka dots, or blue and black colored things (I have a cool skin tone, so blues go well with me). She hates all of that (most of her clothes are from L.L. Bean or Lands End). I was in a shop that she requested and I picked out a striped shirt that I really liked. She told me she didn’t like it because it “didn’t flatter me.” Now, normally I’d shrug that off too, but we were doing this, “no, it looks bad on you” thing for about two hours. Finally, I picked out some stuff that I thought was okay, but I tried putting them on, but they didn’t fit. It was traumatizing for me. I have to take XL’s now, and over the summer I could easily fit in M’s. I was so upset and frustrated that I walked out of the store with my boyfriend. My mom followed. She asks why I’m upset. I respond, “I really don’t appreciate you calling me fat or pregnant.” Her response, “Well, I only did that one time!” My response, “That’s the point. You shouldn’t be saying that to me at all!” When she drove me up to school after spring break, the last thing she did was give me a big hug and told me, “I like you chubby.” I told my therapist about it. She calmed me down a little. She told me she understands what it’s like being able to look in the mirror and completely hate what you see every day. My mother acted like I had never known this before. PROTIP: I am quite aware of my weight gain, obesity, and horrid stretch marks. I am aware I can no longer fit into jeans or pants that don’t have elastic. I am aware I might soon have to buy a completely new wardrobe if I gain anymore weight (or my breast size goes beyond the 38DD I am now. It’s the biggest sized bra Victoria’s Secret sells). I am aware that if I don’t get my cholesterol and weight down, I’m going to get sick and have to be put on cholesterol medication. One more drug to add to the pile.

In addition, we don’t have a lot of homemade family meals because it’s really hard to cater for everybody. So we eat out all the time. That really helps with trying to have a healthy lifestyle, don’t you think?

My boyfriend listens to me, but he just doesn’t get it. He sympathizes but doesn’t emphasize. He’s a fantastic support system. I don’t feel lonely anymore when he comes up to visit me at school. But I still feel alone.

I really hate myself.

Jojo Loves to Reblog

Jojo Loves to Reblog

This is what I think every day when I wake up and wait for my boyfriend

Dear Boyfriend,

I have been waiting for you to wake up for X amount of time. You are still sleeping. I will still wait for you because I don’t want to wake you up on your own. It takes forever. When I actually succeed in waking you, you act like an angry bear that was just awaken from hibernation and you completely ignore my gesture and immediately fall back to sleep. Therefore, a natural wake up seems best.

So when you wake up, I completely expect this to occur:

You waking up: What are you doing?
My ingenious response: Being artistic dumb a person a person farting all the time a jelly fish…I dunno.

Sometimes I wake up and feel like a hyperactive puppy. I start off looking like this (in human stick figure form):

 

But as the hours go by, I end up looking and sounding like an impatient bitch:

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And the entire time I just want to scream out,

“I LOVE YOU! WAKE UP! I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE! LET’S DO SOMETHING FUN AND EXCITING AND INCRIMINATING IN MULTIPLE STATES!”

But then you wake up so unenthused (I know this isn’t a real word, but shh) as if the world hates you because you were awaken from your slumber. So then I just look and feel like a tired poop…

  …Which leads me back to the beginning of what you just read.

NOW LET’S WAKE UP AND DO SOMETHING EXCITING IMMEDIATELY, SHALL WE?!?!

Love always,
That crazy girl, Jojo

Writing a paper talking about the 1971 trippy cult hit “Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”

wickedoriginal:

My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something. My degree will be worth something.