this is me... now

i been gone for a minute now i'm back with the jump off

i’ve been preparing for the release of jennifer lopez’ this is me… now movie/album for months. i want to remember this moment. i need to remember this moment. 

this is me… then, j.lo’s third album came out in 2002. i was 13 years old.  this is what i looked like. 

i won't write that i was going through cuz i don't wanna include a trigger warning 😎

my life isn’t that anymore.  i work really hard to create distance between my past and present.  it’s the guiding principle of my recovery process, four years and counting.

so like! this is me… now was very clearly made just for me.  you can’t convince me otherwise.  it amazes me i feel like this even though i’m as single as i have ever been and with no ben in sight 🤭

pero because i am a beautiful disaster, anticipation has been confabulated with wretched feelings of worthlessness and abandonment. my life is a testament to j.lo’s existence, but much like my binging tendencies and sex addiction, something about my identity as a #jlover started to feel draining and debilitating. euphoria transformed into guilt and regret. 

the lack of sun, brutal january cold, and you know, social working for a living, seasonal affective disorder hit hard. the drive to imagine and create was replaced by dread and neglect to my literary endeavors. i’ve lacked motivation to do anything except the absolute bare minimum to exist.

thanks to years of DBT therapy. i’ve developed incredible self awareness about my thought process and baby… you’d have me committed if you knew. i was also spending ridiculous amounts of time partaking in stan wars online.  i start to wonder if i’m a… loser?

the question keeps reverberating until i get an answer: 

“you are,” says my inner saboteur 

“and a depressed one at that,” adds my wise mind. 

i enact all the coping mechanisms to reclaim my life: i get a haircut. i stop at marshalls. i buy myself a little happy. i reach out to my care team and let them know i need support.

i put an end to the hibernation. i make plans to attend the this is me… now movie screening at the lincoln amc, a week before the official release. i order a this is me… now hoodie for the event. i get there early to secure a signed poster. i make friends in the line. 

during the screening, i get hyped to hearts & flowers. i relate hard to rebound. i sob to the group therapy monologue before broken like me. and more importantly, hummingbird (more on that later).  i can’t remember the last time i felt this happy.

then j.lo breaks my heart. 

feeling abandoned is nothing new to me, pero abandoned by j.lo???????????? unimaginable.

it’s a brick to the back of my neck. it feels just like my birth mothers original sin. and that makes me feel stupid. which feeds my inner critic. the litany of failures, disappointments, and regrets plays in my head like a ryan murphy show: slow, disjointed, unnecessary.

but support steps in. my therapist helps me untangle the combobulated feelings. the movie is released 8 hours ahead of schedule, on a thursday night after a loverless valentines day, in the solitude of my apartment. with no choice but to be brave, i put on the movie and feel. 

i sob quietely, i sing loudly, and dance manically again and again until i exhaust myself. 

the next day i wake up with what a i think is a cyst.

who needs webmd when you have my friends?

i ignore it like i do every other ailments that torments me until sunday morning. i feel my lips swollen, a lump in my throat, and a little rash on my left index finger. pain level at a 7 and escalating.  i go to urgent care. because i’m gay, the providers deduct it could be allergies but most likely syphilis. GURL. 

monday morning, bright and early (because i couldn’t sleep), i reach out to my darling pcp and hopped on a telehealth session. i show her my symptoms, which now includes a growing rash on my leg, my neck, inner thigh and other unfortunate places. i share the alleged prognosis. 

“they are incredibly wrong. it’s not an allergy or an sti. that’s monkeypox.”

we talk about tests, timeline, treatment. when the consult is over, i can’t stop myself from overloading with fear, pain, anger.

so i start writing this draft, knowing when i hit publish, i’ll be healed from the monkeypox and on the other side of of this depression.

my wise mind (left) my inner saboteur (right)

Per the CDC: Mpox virus can spread to anyone through contact with objects, fabrics, and surfaces that have not been disinfected after use by someone with mpox. IT’S NOT A GAY ILLNESS! Talk to your provider. Get vaccinated if you’re at risk. I am, luckily, so it wasn’t as awful as it could’ve been.