Tuesday, June 1, 2010

My Panic Button Takes Several Months to Activate

I'm planning and working on a series of posts about the most depressing year of my fucking life. It's taking some time to write but, unlike every other post I've put out there, I'm at least thinking about it ahead of time. There is a problem I have when it comes to thinking, I either over think the fuck out of it or I don't think at all.

There was a knock on my door. I froze. Mona started to bark but I turned her volume to a rumble. A girls voice said my name as I laid flat, still, and stiff on my bed. My heart raced. Mona grumbled. Butterflies filled my stomach. My name, "Colin," rang out one final time. The high heels trailed off and the moment was over, only it lasted and kept elevating in my mind. The panic increased.

I stood up, out of bed and threw shoes on, I needed to leave. I had no idea where but it felt like I had taken about 150 milligrams of Adderall (normal dose: 5-20mgs.) my body wasn't attached to my head, neither attached to reality. So I did the only thing you can do in those situations. I went to Glendale and bought new work shoes.

"I need your address and phone number," said the old lady at the counter who had facial fuzz longer than Zooey Deschenal's, whose is longer than my arm hair. I had spent the 20 minute ride to the shoe store convincing myself that I needed to move because too many people knew where I lived and this woman told me to proclaim it to the store, all in the name of a shitty pair of shoes I've worn 3 times - and only because I don't like wasting money.

"Why do you need my address, I'm buying shoes. You need it." She explained that it was for coupons or something I had no interest in but I was not grounded in reality at the moment so I sort of lost my shit. "How can you tell me you need my address??? You want it, and that's a totally different thing." I proceeded to pay in cash, which I never do, simply because handing over my credit card was handing over too much information.

When I got back home I spent the next 2 hours looking up and emailing therapists.

Now, to complete what I started that day in January I'm moving. I'll give more details and pictures when the location is finalized but my girlfriend and I just looked at a place in...gulp...Silver Lake (I love you Echo Park) and it was fucking perfect. The front room is open and airy, seems bright and fits as a perfect entry into the house. There is a small office/work-out room just off of that, which will serve as music studio/sweat lodge. The bedroom is cute and just right. Amazingly I would describe the kitchen as large which is unheard of in a city. There is a little patio in the front and an cave in the back.

Let's just assume that I'll link you to my girlfriend's blog when it comes time to describe the house and you can come here for details on the cave.

I'm not sure who knocked on my door that day, it's safe to say that without her I would still be putting off going to a therapist so I'm actually thankful that she did send me into a state of frenzied panic. What I never expected my therapist to tell me, but he did so on day 1, was that he sees me as a bit of a perfectionist. He says that I over-think things so badly that I end up taking no action at all. My blog is my no thought, unfiltered (uninteresting?) link to my creative side. Now that I'm planning one out we'll have to see what happens.

There is a tie to these stories, somewhere. I'm just not sure I know where it is and I don't feel like taking the time to look for it. If I reread the post I'm likely to not click the "PUBLISH POST" key, which looks less like a panic button every time I click it.

Aaaaannnnd click.

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