For funsies yesterday, I tried on clothes from a box I had set aside, that had some size L clothes I wasn’t ready to wear yet. There was a pair of size 14 jeans in there. They fit.
In other news, I’ve been on Chantix for six days. Yesterday, I had 1-2 cigarettes. Normally, I have 8-10 cigarettes a day. As an FYI, you aren’t supposed to quit with Chantix until you reach days 8-35. So I am well on track to quit early in that time frame.
I’ve taken Chantix before and successfully quit for around a month. What happened? I went on vacation, had my prescription transferred to a pharmacy in the vacation destination so I could pick it up, and I wasn’t able to pick it up for days after I ran out. I got super stressed out about it and relapsed. Not proud of that.
This time around, I am buying my Chantix online. No fuss, no muss, lower cost, no constant doctor appointments, no fucking around with pharmacies, no hoops to jump through. I already know I have no averse reactions to Chantix. None of the side effects, except for mild stomach rumblies, happen to me. I love this medication; I’m not sure how it works but god is my mood better than normal, and the vivid dreams are a great plus.
It’s going to work this time.
Husbando and I are picking up our Model 3 on Tuesday. After waiting for what, about two, three years? We opted for pearl white for the color. I’ve been joking that the car is so white, I’m calling it Brayden. I’m both excited to get it, and kind of bothered by the implications of owning a luxury car.
I don’t relate to well-off people, though I guess I am one now. When I worked at my highfalutin software engineering job, I mostly hung out with the facilities and IT staff, not my coworkers. The car is an additional layer of distance between myself and the people I relate to. I also have flashes of anxiety about being the lumpy, not-perfectly-coiffed person that I am and getting out of the fancy car and being laughed at. I’m working myself up too much about it. I need to remember I’m the one who owns a Tesla, not them. I have the same thing about going into high-end shops, like I don’t belong there. I feel that way about makeup shops like Sephora, like everyone there knows a faker, a pretender has walked into the shop. Part of why I don’t go into these places anymore.
Not going to let anxiety derail this post. TESLA MODEL 3!
I’ve decided, in other news, that pretense is going to kill me. I need to be the dour bitch other people think I am, from judging my appearance. I’ve never been able to fake girly very well. Those who I thought were close to me got to see the relaxed me, dopey and childish and nice, and I’ve reaped the consequences of that. Being talked over, ignored, disregarded, dismissed, condescended to.
It’s just the way people are. A hard lesson to learn.
I won’t fake overt sexuality. I won’t fake a fawning, girly demeanor. I’ll be clean and groomed but not made-up. I won’t fake a desire for glamour. I won’t care about the male gaze. Or, the female gaze, for that matter. I will hold my ground. I will be disliked. I will be challenged. But I won’t pretend anymore. I won’t feed the anxiety, the little whispering voice that says,”You need them to accept you.” Because they won’t. They won’t ever accept someone who is not a painted princess. I have never been a painted princess. And that’s okay. That’s fucking great, actually.
I’ll stand with my head up high.