mytherapistthinksimfunny

[mytherapistthinksimfunny]

Like That One Rolling Stones Song

Two years ago today, I truly fulfilled my single, anxiety-driven, Brooklyn girl fate: I got a cat.

I’ll try to make this short and sweet. In January 2020, after a hard year of up and down employment mixed with depression-watching Frasier, I finally got a really good gig. Around the same time I was dating a guy I was super into. My family had plans to go to Paris in April and work already approved the time off. Life, for one month, looked absolutely great.

Blah blah blah we all know the rest.

To rewind, in December 2019 I was with one of my dearest friends Alena, parked near a field in Rhode Island. I saw a shooting star, seeing it as a sign that things were going to be ok, that 2020 would be a lot better than 2019.

When things turned for the worst I blamed that shooting star on all the shit that went down. I wished for a good job and a boyfriend that made me feel like I belonged, but the song of my early childhood rang true: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” 

It turns out what I needed was a cat. 

June 28, 2020. I had a routine. I would get iced coffee next door at Willoughby General and sit on my stoop. I was feeling a little hard on myself that morning for sleeping through a Buddhist meeting I had agreed to attend. A man I recognized walked by. After only talking to the same 4 people for the past 3 months, I was way more willing to talk to complete strangers now. I said hello and told him I recognized him. His name was Eric, he was from Trinidad originally and lived in the neighborhood fixing up brownstones. We chatted for an hour. In that hour we talked about his life, spirituality, and his cat, Snowball. He showed me pictures of Snowball, to which I casually said “I would love a cat someday.” He looked at me and said “I can get you a cat.” I laughed and didn’t think much of it. As he was leaving to go about his day, he bought me another iced coffee and told me “I’m going to surprise you one day.” Now usually I don’t take what men say at face-value just because you know, men, so I chalked up the whole interaction as a lovely little chat with a neighbor. I went about my day, went for a walk, food shopping, and desperately tried to get that guy I was into to text me back (spoiler alert, he never did). 

Monday. June 29, 2020. My doorbell rings. It’s Eric. He says he has the “cat” for me in his car. Now he has a heavy Caribbean accent, and because I am an idiot, I could not understand what he was saying at first. Did he say chair? He opened his car and sitting on the backseat was a little cat. His fur around his ears was patchy, he was dirty, and he looked so scared. Eric put him in a box and handed him to me, saying he was from a friend who had cats. I was speechless. Then he told me to “hold this” and it was a $100 bill. He winked and said “I told you I would surprise you.”

Do you know the show, I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant? where a woman will be on the toilet thinking she has really bad diarrhea but when she looks in the toilet it turns out she gave birth? Yeah, that’s how I felt. I have never had a cat before, had done zero research into cat care, and I was scared because my landlord didn’t allow cats. I thought he was a girl at first because I couldn’t see genitalia that would indicate he was a male and also I do not know what cat genitalia looks like. I think that’s a normal thing to not have knowledge of, personally. 

The only thing I did know was what I would name this cat. I was rewatching a lot of It’s Always Sunny and I remember thinking at one point: “If I ever get a cat I’ll name them Charlie.” So boy or girl, this cat’s name was Charlie. 

I was a total mess. Charlie barely emerged from under the couch. I was facetiming friends and family asking what the hell I should do. I was scrambling to find a vet. I used the money Eric gave me to get flea medicine and other supplies. The only thing keeping me calm was the fact that Charlie would let me hold him. At the end of that first day, as he was trying to run to my bathroom, I caught him. I held him in my lap and proceeded to pet him. He purred. That’s when he first started to trust me. That’s also when I learned he did not know how to use a litter box because there was cat poop in my shower. 

The first night was like a night with a newborn. He wouldn’t stop crying and I didn’t know why. I was scared that my neighbor would rat me out to the landlord. Why I thought my extremely old Polish neighbor who would bring prostitutes in at all hours of the night woud rat me out, I don’t know.  Leftover thinking from the suburbs I guess. 

The next day at the vet I learned that Charlie was a boy. The vet said: “Mama, he’s a boy. Come feel.” And that’s when the vet made me feel my cat’s testicles. When they first were giving Charlie shots, he wouldn’t stop shrieking. I was in the corner, on the verge of tears. I was scared, I was stressed, I had no idea what was going on. In just 24 hours I was responsible for a living creature when I was just learning how to take care of myself at 26. The vet kept referring to me as “Mama’ which I found oddly comforting. She could see on my face that I was overwhelmed, and reassured me things were fine and to go sit in the lobby. 

She had told me earlier that if Charlie tested positive for feline AIDS, she would have to ask me if I wanted to put him down. I have never told anyone this before, but at that moment I thought: “Well if they put him down then I am free of this cat and I don’t have to worry anymore.” I was so stressed out that my mind wanted to go to the easiest route, which was to give up. Thank God the worst thing Charlie had was a fever.

July went on, and within days Charlie followed me everywhere. He was sleeping on my chest by the end of the first week. I was in love. We would sit in my bed and watch King of the Hill for hours in those hot summer days, where it was perfectly acceptable to stay inside and do nothing. 

During this time, my roommate decided not to renew the lease, and I had someone else lined up to room with me who also had a cat. When Charlie came into the picture, she backed out because she didn’t think her cat would get along with another cat. So once again, right as I was over the initial shock of being a cat owner, things went back to what they always are: stressful. I was panicking about finding a new roommate.

My panic led me to Willoughby General, the little store attached to my building. I asked the cashier working if she knew of anyone looking for a room. She said she didn’t, but her coworker, Elisa, was looking for someone to fill a space in her apartment. Now, after getting to know the area better and participating more in the community, I didn’t want to leave my street in Bed-Stuy. This girl’s apartment was on the same block, was 2 floors, and had a backyard. It was perfect. It was more rent, but at the time I thought I still had my job when production was greenlit again. I was ready to move right then and there.

Elisa and I hit it off. She was warm and would invite me to everything. She introduced me to people that came into the store or who passed us on the street. I thought she was the mayor of the neighborhood, the way she knew everyone. One night she invited me to a movie night in the park a few of our neighbors had put together. There I met two boys who had a couple of tall boys. Elisa knew one of them and introduced us. His name was Quinn. He was a musician. His friend Jake was also a musician. After the movie we got to chatting, and they mentioned they had to go to the bathroom, but the park bathroom was closed for the night. I offered my apartment, since it was only a couple of blocks away and I was living by myself at the time while my roommate was quarantining in California. Suddenly it was 3 am and I had two boys on my couch, one falling asleep and one enthusiastically showing me music videos on TV. To this day, we still continue to do that.

Movie night became the highlight of my week. I would meet so many new people and end up in the park for hours drinking and chatting. The first week I moved into the apartment (just a few days after I had learned that I was let go from my job), movie night was rained out, and that’s when I met a girl named Sarah. I invited Quinn and Jake over and we all got to talking well into the night. A week after that, our third roommate moved in, a girl Elisa found on the Roomi app. Her name was Sophia. She made a Shrek joke the first night we met and I was in love.

So throughout the rest of 2020, despite the fear and the letdowns, I ended up being…happy. I had it in my head that happiness comes from being accomplished, having a good job in the field you want, because otherwise, what was the point of living in Brooklyn? I could have just moved back home, saved money, and found a nice remote job. Instead I decided I’d rather be poor and babysitting so I could live in one of the greatest cities in the world. I didn’t need to be something I wasn’t. For the first time since living in Brooklyn, I felt like I belonged. I was drinking on my stoop with my roommates and friends, waving at neighbors passing by. Two years later, I continue to do that, with even more friends.

Charlie is one of the greatest things to ever happen to me. I constantly put my worth into where I am at in my career or who I am dating (which I know is unhealthy and thus why I’m in therapy). However, this cat reminded me that there is so much more to life. He kept me busy, he showed me love. He teaches me patience. There is still so much more life to live. I cannot put into words how much I love him. He sleeps in my bed almost every night. Usually, right before I’m about to go to sleep, he jumps up on my chest and rubs his face onto mine. When he does this, my heart just wants to burst. Here is this little creature, who honestly is not the brightest, showing that he loves me. 

All of this, the happiness, the friends, the new apartment, all of this happened because of a dirty cat in a box who I decided to call Charlie. 

[mytherapistthinksimfunny]

The Endless Thirst of Grace Michaud

It’s almost 11 pm, and in the four hours that I have been home from work, I’ve been reading articles about Adam Driver. Alone in my apartment, I snort to myself as I read The Cut’s “I Want to Be Adam Driver’s Baby”  and “21 Things I Would Like to Do With Adam Driver” which I relate to a little too well. I, too, want to “peruse real-estate listings” with Adam Driver. 

In my nearly 26 years of living, Adam Driver is this month’s Grace Michaud’s “It Boy.” Last month it was Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Next month? Who knows, but Henry Cavill is looking mighty fine in The Witcher. 

For anyone who has ever known me, this causes little concern. To everyone joining the Grace Michaud journey: welcome. You are about to experience an everyday occurrence.

New friends, or people who only interact with me via social media: I suffer from being infinitely thirsty. My thirst can never be quenched. Usually the thirst comes at a normal level, like any thirst, and starts out as a simple tickle in the throat. If offered a drink I wouldn’t say no. But I don’t actively do anything about it. I could go for a drink, but I’m not about to get up and get one. Then the thought becomes nagging, that maybe I really should get up and get a drink right now. I’ll crave water, a simple free drink that comes from the tap. Soon my thirst becomes more distinct. I’m craving an Arnold Palmer and I need that Arnold Palmer now. I drink and drink and still I’m thirsty, drinking like I’m in the desert, about to die unless I drink the world’s entire water supply right now. 

I am, of course, not talking about liquids. I’m talking about men.

An attractive male on a film or show catches my eye, and I make note. Soon I’m watching every movie they’ve ever made until I’m in a downward spiral of interviews in the trenches of YouTube and Google. 

I’ve been attracted to the male species since before I could form a concrete memory. The evidence is in a video of my dad teasing me at three about a crush I have on a boy named Ricardo. Wracking my memory, the name sounds familiar, and I’m aware I had crushes when I was in preschool.

How in the world did my tiny brain comprehend the very idea of crushes? That one could feel something more than just friendship with someone? That I, a mere three-year-old just learning how to not urinate my pants, was able to identify that? I’ve dated 30-year-old men who are nowhere near that level of emotionally intelligent. 

Who were you, Ricardo? Why was I fascinated with you? Was I attracted to you? Do three-year- olds recognize attraction? Where are you now Ricardo? Have you met your metaphorical Lucy?

So we begin, reader, towards an agonizing life of never-ending attraction to men. Now, I am absolutely not going to go into my dating life. That is just one long humiliating and questionable series of life decisions that even I don’t want to get into. Let’s just say, at 11, there was an entire diary entry of pictures from my yearbook of a kid named Kyle who once took a pinecone out of my hair. I shudder at the thought. And don’t get me started about junior year of high school.                                                                      

I mention Ricardo to show you that my thirst for men was always there, whether I knew it or not. To me, it seems, it was just a normal feeling that was a part of me. Nothing unusual. My karate teacher was a hottie and probably why I loved going to karate. I loved men so much that I wanted to be them. I dressed in boy’s clothes, even boy’s underwear, and occasionally asked my parents to call me Michael. Now, you’re probably thinking: “Wow there is a lot to unpack here.” But this was 1997 and my parents just went along with it, not really caring as long as I went to bed when they told me to. While others may think something entirely different, I just chalk this up to being that boy crazy. I didn’t start wearing dresses until I hit puberty….but I’m already getting off topic and I don’t want this to turn into an episode of Big Mouth. Let’s try and remain focused here: I’m an obsessive person.

This is my Kindle library as of March 20, 2020:

There is a home movie of my two-year-old self pointing to my Tweedy Bird hat excitedly. “I have Tweedy Bird on my hat!” I repeat over and over with a lisp, clearly very excited I had something I loved on an item of clothing. Even then, when I loved something, I was all in. 

Combine my obsessive personality with my attraction to the male species? We descend into madness, my friends. From cartoon characters, to television shows, to actors, to rock stars, to actors again. I obsess most over men I don’t personally know. Think 25 years of pictures covering walls. Merchandise. Staying up till 3 am diving into the corners of the internet for every last drop of information I could get. 

And it all started with Bugs Bunny.

Bugs Bunny was my first foray into fangirl territory. It was that episode when Bugs Bunny dressed as a Viking woman that drew me into the Bugs Bunny portal of obsession. I wasn’t attracted to Bugs Bunny in drag, necessarily; I was more fascinated by the idea of Elmer Fudd falling in love with Bugs Bunny. That Bugs was a character that could be loved romantically. I know this sounds really bizarre and heavy, but I fully believe that I was fascinated by romantic love that early in my life. 

Soon I didn’t stop talking about Bugs Bunny. I had an entire Bugs Bunny tracksuit, slippers, and a doll. There’s a picture of me in my entire ensemble while holding the doll, ecstatic. For my fourth birthday my mom made me a homemade Bugs Bunny Halloween costume. Bugs Bunny was even my imaginary friend for a bit there. I must have worn out the Space Jam VHS tape.

Note the Bugs Bunny watch. 

That’s childhood obsession for you. When I loved Pokemon all I would do was talk about it and dream about it. 

Then it was Digimon. In twenty six years, it hasn’t stopped. Up until December of 2019, it’s been one TV show after the other, examples being Avatar the Last Airbender, Total Drama Island, The Office, The Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Sherlock, Game of Thrones, Mr. Robot, Fleabag, Frasier, and most recently, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Harry Potter has always been a love for me, and I’ve been obsessed with two different book series: the comic books The Umbrella Academy (the show is a DISASTER compared to how good the comics are), and The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod (a book series about a vampire; as a bonus, see how many vampires you can count). A common theme for all of these things was the fact that I was attracted to a singular male character and their relationship to others.

In preparing to write this I wrote about 6 pages worth of notes, all ranging in obsession. To completely write about every single one would take a novel with each of my multiple obsessions being individual chapters. For example, during the Total Drama Island years I was constantly up till 3 am on the weekends making YouTube videos for the show. If you can find them...I’d be impressed. (But actually, please don’t.) I’ll try to provide a list and a little comment, as I split my obsessions into various categories. 

At 11, I discovered the Sprouse twins and my object of desire went from cartoon characters to actors. I was known as “the Sprouse twins” girl, specifically Cole, during sixth grade. This was the first time I covered my room and locker in posters. 

A year later, we jumped dramatically and came to my obsessive emo phase. While I listened to a lot of bands, my attention was turned mostly to Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy and Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance. (The latter I would later meet after MCR broke up when I was about 20 years old after his solo show,  and it was just as awkward as I could imagine). That’s when my room was completely covered in Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance posters. I wore a lot of black and those years were honestly my cringiest moments. Hey, we were all 13. 

I started to shift more from short, skinny, guyliner-wearing men and noticing tall, muscular, and handsome ones. I can pinpoint when I started to first feel sexually attracted to a man (at an appropriate age! I was going through puberty!) when I saw the trailer for Fantastic Four, and Chris Evans came out shirtless in a towel. Oh GOD what an ICONIC moment. Goodbye Sprouse Twins, hello six packs.

The summer going into high school, I saw The Dark Knight 3 times because of Christian Bale as Batman. He walked in wearing that tight black shirt and my expectations for men from there on out would never match up to Batman. Gaston from Beauty and the Beast seemed hotter now (you all know what scene I’m talking about), That attraction became the strangest when I remarked to my friend that Ultron was pretty hot for a robot. 

Maybe that’s why I love Kylo Ren so much. He’s the combination of two of my great loves: a buff emo. 

The high school years followed a somewhat similar pattern, but mostly actors more so than musicians. To be fair, in high school Fall Out Boy broke up and didn’t get back together till I was in college, and My Chemical Romance only released one album in my four years. So during high school and college there weren't really any “emo” guys or musicians to lust over. 

Now in 2020 I live in Brooklyn where every man and their mother is a “musician” so the whole idea turns me off. It was fun while it lasted though, and I’ll always be an emo kid at heart. I’ve seen Fall Out Boy 7 times in the last 10 years, and I paid an insane amount of money for My Chemical Romance reunion tour tickets. 

High school was a time where everyone was entering a more mature phase of their puberty journey, and for me, that was lusting after men over the age of 30. I had a hella crush on Zachary Quinto (who I saw walk past me once in the Village and I almost pooped my pants) even though I knew he was gay. I went through a Freddie Mercury phase for a bit too, I mean, come on, that chest hair.

I had a few months lusting after Colin Farrell after seeing him in Fright Night (which I recently found out was written by my favorite Buffy writer! seventeen-year-old me foreshadowing the present). In The Phantom of the Opera I sided with the Phantom the entire time, wishing that I could be seduced through opera in a hidden Parisian cave. My mom introduced me to Ryan Gosling who became my dream man. While reading Great Gatsby I had a huge crush on Seth Meyers who I would imagine Nick Carraway as. He does sort of look like Toby McGuire? He was the first of many goofy men that would lead to John Mulaney, Rob Delaney, Nathan Fielder, Ben Wyatt, and Niles Crane. Chris Pratt still fits into that category, though he’s the perfect combination of goofy and buff. When The Avengers came out my senior year of high school, I saw it 4 times in the theater. 

The British invasion didn’t happen until my senior year and defined my college years, with posters of Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hardy, Michael Fassbender, Eddie Redmayne, and James Norton. My feet ache thinking about the times I waited in line at a movie premiere or a film set to get a glimpse of any of these gents. When I saw Benedict Cumberbatch on set in Boston my knees gave out. Domhnall Gleeson is also in that group of fine British men despite being Irish. It’s why I always have a moral dilemma whenever General Hux comes on screen in Star Wars. Twice I had a hardcore crush on Seth MacFarlane, going to the Ted 2 set living in Boston, waving to him as he got into his car. I would meet him again 3 years later when I worked on Harry, looking like a total disaster. But he said “hi” to me which sent me to cloud 9. I once waited in a lobby of a show to meet Lee Pace even though I didn’t see the show. 

All of these men at one point adorned my room, desktop background, dorm room (which was covered in posters, no wonder I rarely ever had a boy in there), and phone background. Today my phone background is the throne room scene of Rey and Kylo in The Last Jedi. Why do you think I had Tweedy Bird on my hat? I need my obsession with me at all times and I want the world to see. 

(Thank God tattoos are expensive and I was too young to get them during my hardcore obsessions. Imagine if I had a giant Total Drama Island tattoo on my back? I shudder.) 

While a lot of the attraction for these men was based on personality, looks, and accents, I also have a tendency to become enamoured with villains and dark characters. In 1999 I was in the movie theater seeing The Phantom Menace. Up until that point, there were virtually no children featured in Star Wars films, so when a young Anakin Skywalker graced the screen, my five-year-old heart would not stop beating. I loved him so much, I carried a Pepsi bottle with his image on it everywhere I went. I slept with it. My comfort blanket was a Pepsi bottle with a picture of a nine-year-old boy. 

I had the famous Phantom Menace poster with young Anakin Skywalker with the shadow of Darth Vader behind him. I distinctly remember my dad telling me in the theater, “That’s Darth Vader as a little boy.” When I saw Return of the Jedi my favorite scene was when Luke took off Vader’s mask, because you got to see Vader’s real face for the first time. That Vader actually was a human and not a monster fascinated me to the point of obsession which, as you probably have figured out, still carries over to the sequel trilogy. 

Bugs Bunny established my fanaticism, but Anakin Skywalker determined my type: men presented as villains but actually are redeemed over time. Through the years I think I’ve enjoyed getting to figure out someone. Their character is presented as one dimensional, and then even the tiniest thing that strays from that is seen as fascinating. There’s a great quote from an Adam Driver profile in the New York Times that I think encapsulates it: 

“A manner so resolute that when some emotion does manage to escape - whether through a glint in his eyes or the unpredictable undulations of his voice - that transgression can’t help but take you by surprise.” 

Now my therapist says that probably comes with my need to help and fix the real boys in my life. We both joked that our favorite character in A Haunting of Hill House was the drug-addicted little brother. 

I think it is totally unfair, because I know that I can’t personally help them... though ok, she may be a little right.

While I enjoy “complicated” from afar, it does subconsciously fulfill the need for what I can’t do in reality, which is being someone’s reason to change. Mostly through love. Turns out, in real life, it is far less romantic to be dating someone with a lot of emotional issues! Who knew! 

You decide for yourself. Here are all the fictional characters I’ve obsessed over who fit this category: 

-Kylo Ren (I mean, duh)

-Prince Zuko (the original Kylo Ren)

-The Phantom of the Opera (Thank you, Leslie Knope)

-Damon from Vampire Diaries

-Hot Priest from Fleabag (ok not a villain but he’s supposed to be a holy man and you think aw he’s never gonna...AND THEN HE DOES!) 

-Mr. Darcy (again not a villain but he was to Elizabeth at first!!!!)

-Duncan from Total Drama Island

-Draco Malfoy (that bleached blonde hair attraction still hasn’t gone away, oops)

-Spock in JJ Abrams’s last good movie Star Trek

-Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (oh if my heart could beat it would break my chest, how many times have I cried over that sweet platinum blonde baby?) 

Look, I know this is all fictional and in no way real. None of these men exist and are all a fantasy. Hey, I watch You and am extremely creeped out by Joe! I don’t root for him! I also hope I don’t stay this way forever. I really don’t want to be a Twilight mom. I’ve calmed down in my old age, ok? I don’t wait in the cold for hours at a stage door anymore, and I go on real dates now. I’ve even had a few boyfriends in my days who were nothing like the men I lusted after nor did I even compare. 

I completely agree that all these men would be horrible to date! Draco Malfoy was totally a bigot and bully. Kylo Ren killed his dad, and I have a good relationship with my dad, so I can’t really relate. And yes, Spike before he got his soul is nothing to wish for in a boyfriend, even if it was fun to watch him. Kylo Ren and Spike have killed multiple people. I’m not down to date a murderer. 

One day I’ll be able to consume something I enjoy and move on after a week. Growing up, mundane suburban life was a little more interesting when you get lost in a fantasy for a while. To be focused on something other than school, work, or even your own anxieties. If anything, I think my obsessive personality towards men in particular just pushes me to look for more and to yearn for more instead of being depressed that I don’t get to live it. I don’t just settle for the first boy to like me back. I strive to one day not to marry a celebrity, a comedian, or an anthropomorphic cartoon character, but someone who makes me feel like I’m the heroine of my own show. 

For now, I’ll just wait for the Phantom to spring me into his underground lair. 

Taken 2 minutes before I published this. 

[mytherapistthinksimfunny]

2019: Who the Hell is Grace Michaud?

By Grace Michaud

Last night at dinner, while my Dad was talking about his frat boy days, I chimed in with: “That’s like in Buffy when they go to the frat house where they’re all sacrificing girls to a Lizard God thing, and then Buffy goes and kills it.” My parents just stared at me, quite used to these completely useless facts about a 20-year-old show these past 2 months. My mother finally sighed, looked at me, and said: “Grace, when I was going through a rough time, all I did was watch 90210. I was so obsessed that I would try and fit it into every conversation I could. That’s what you remind me of right now.” I couldn’t think of a witty response. I’ve always been obsessed with some piece of pop culture. It’s when I feel most like Grace Michaud. Now my mom is throwing some cold water over me. 

It was like whenever I’m so engrossed in something, whether it be binge watching a show, reading, or going down a rabbit hole of Star Wars memes, I look to the left of my bed at my mirror. I just stare at myself, realizing, “oh shit, that’s me.” It’s like I’m seeing myself for the first time in a long time, an old friend who I haven’t seen since school days. I just stare. I look so different to whatever I was thinking about. I’m not Buffy, I’m not Sarah Michelle Gellar. That’s when reality sinks in, that this is my face. I can’t change my face, not really. But who is underneath that face? Suddenly I’m Mulan and I’m wondering: “Who is that girl I see?” 

Then I make my chin go super deep towards my chest so I look like a monster. Then I get back to googling “James Marsters in 2000.” 

I’m not a vampire slayer, or a hacker, a radio psychiatrist, or even a woman who has the ability to seduce a hot priest.

I’m Grace Michaud. 25, single, living in a small room in Brooklyn with no steady job. Most of my friends live in other cities. Those were just facts, but who the hell was I? Why was I only seeing the bad parts of myself, why was I comparing myself to other people, and why was I letting my depression get the better of me?

This month, after the fourth time of sleeping till 3 in the afternoon, I knew I had to admit it to myself what I was avoiding. I was alone, and I was unhappy.

Now before you start grimacing and thinking “oh this is going to get uncomfortable,” remember this is supposed to be a HUMOR BLOG for God’s sake. No, me being alone is not something I’m trying to say to get sympathy out of you. What I’m trying to say is it was just me for most of the year, and I had to deal with that. Every decision had to come through me. All my problems? Only I could fix.

I’ve been on my own before, I’ve always been an independent person. I’ve travelled to foreign countries by myself. I go to concerts alone, bars alone, I really don’t let anything stop me if I don’t have someone to come with me. 

But now, me being alone seemed a bit more frustrating. I spent most of my Fridays and Saturdays binge watching Frasier. It seemed like every time I had a date set up, he would flake on me. I just kept finding myself alone a lot, not even meaning to. I had an apartment, with no regular income to keep me at ease. 

Alone alone alone, nothing was coming anymore, the future was just there and I was in the open water with nothing to look forward to. When I go to my parents for the weekend they sometimes have to tell me to shut up because I just unload all of my talking onto them. I’m not even saying anything remotely interesting (because like I said, nothing has happened) but the act of talking aloud just feels so good. 

Being alone and broke did push me to go out and find an income to survive. I bit the bullet and decided that being a babysitter was my best option, since it was what I was best at and flexible with my freelance schedule. Sure enough the best boy I met all year was a 2-year-old kid who loved the Beatles and the A-train and told me my farts were musical. My best friend became a toddler who was Eloise at the Plaza reincarnated. Sometimes that was the most socializing I got was hanging out with toddlers who couldn’t even hold a conversation. 

Every boy I dated this year flaked on me and once it happened three times in a row. In the new Little Women, Jo rants to her mom that even though she left for New York, she is tired of feeling alone. Sure, she had pursued her dreams, but she was lonely. That maybe she should have just married Laurie because she “wants to be loved.” God, how many times this year had I done that? All year I was holding onto men, men who I didn’t have feelings for or who didn’t treat me well, because I was so scared of not being loved. I was scared that if I didn’t accept a boy showing some sort of affection to me, I would never get this affection again. This weakness made me be in relationships that weren’t healthy, and always, always, set me up for disappointment. 

I’ve been rejected from my dream satire site twice. I’ve been on a lot of job interviews and the rejection has filled me with tears. Because it was just me, I was dependent on me. No one else was going to make anything happen. There were so many times this year where I didn’t even leave the apartment and the only social interaction I had was me talking to the TV. I obsessively watched TV this year like my life depended on it. I fell in love with some great television shows. I think I watched Fleabag over 15 times. I’ve lost count. I watched Mr. Robot and when I finished I started it again, and even took a trip on a cold March afternoon to walk the pier of Coney Island. Then came Frasier which I watched non-stop, and then of course my latest obsession, Buffy the Vampire Slayer which has given me more excitement and emotions than anything else this year. To end the year we got Rise of Skywalker which propelled me to sitting around in my PJs watching Star Wars and lusting after Adam Driver.

Holy crap, my mother was right. 

But I wouldn’t call this pathetic. I just call this life. I didn’t choose to be alone, it just happened. At first I was extremely angry. I felt embarrassed. A loser. I felt like I was 15 again, a freshman in high school. I was in a new place and I felt inferior to all the mature upperclassmen, I was the one who didn’t make the soccer team and watched as my friends went off to be friends with the older soccer players and make out with junior boys. I felt like a loser in a city where you literally have the whole world at your fingertips. 

I told my therapist as much that I felt like this was such a waste of a year. She told me that wasn’t true and listed something that made it not. I did get to go to Portland and Boston to see my friends. I did get a few really good gigs that paid well and were cool. I did meet some boys this year. My little brother and I got to see Vampire Weekend. I got to reconnect with some old friends and even got to take care of a dog. I stayed in touch with work friends and bonded over it. 

And yes, I was alone. But I needed it. I needed to look at myself in the mirror and figure out who the hell adult me was. I had gone through a crisis of this when I was in my high school depression years, and in a way I repeated that ten years later. 

It was needed. I needed to be alone because of the type of person I am. Other people don’t change me directly. It’s me. I was entirely on my own on this one. No one could make me happy except myself. Of course I wanted a job and I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted to be social and go out every Friday night at a cool bar. But I wasn’t ready. And I think the universe was trying to tell me that. Kind of rude for it to tell me that by having me throw up after one tequila shot, making me realize “oh maybe I should stop worrying about being social for social sake...” but still. 

I had to realize that it’s my fault. Learning that I’m the only one who can fix things. I was forcing myself to blame myself for everything. I know I shouldn’t be hard on myself but frankly it has to be done. I had to stop comparing myself to others, stop feeling sorry for myself.

Like Rey in The Last Jedi, I had to confront that it was just me. 

To continue with the theme of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women, after Jo rants to her mother, her mother then asks about Laurie: “But do you love him?” Her mother went on to explain that Jo has to love back. Sure she wants to be loved, but it’s not the same as being in love. Maybe that’s why every guy kept flaking on me, because the universe was telling me that I wasn’t ready, wasn’t ready for anyone right now. I’m not going to say it, the dreaded “I have to date myself!” But I guess I did really need to learn how to love myself. 

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m not saying: “Oh boo hoo I’m so lonely! Someone fix it!” That’s not what I’m saying at all. The part about feeling sorry for yourself is over, because again, it’s only yourself who can forgive yourself. The universe wanted this. Wanted me to be alone so I could get back to being Grace Michaud again. It’s just a fact of the matter, not a tragedy. Maybe one day it’ll happen to you. All I’m saying is, sometimes you do need to be alone and when you are, you have to force yourself to talk to yourself. 

And figure out who the hell Grace Michaud is. 

[mytherapistthinksimfunny]

If There is a God, He’s a Sitcom Writer

By Grace Michaud

I wrote this in the fall of 2019. LOL

In an episode of Frasier, Niles gets ready for a date. As he prepares, he sets his pants on fire, faints several times from a self-inflicted cut, and while trying to get gunk off the couch, proceeds to set it on fire. Such is a metaphor for my daily adult life: I’m just trying to get things done but I end up setting everything on fire on my own accord. I mean this literally: I once was trying to film a sketch on SnapChat and accidentally burnt my hair with a lighter.

Each week since first writing this has been a new episode in the sitcom that is my life. When I started writing I had just came back from waiting 3 hours for someone to come unlock the door to my work’s rental car. You know, the rental car with all the stuff needed to feed a small crew? Paperwork to make sure said crew gets paid? My one job? For once in my life, I was an hour ahead of schedule which never happens. Usually I’m in a rush, trying to beat the clock to get somewhere. But in a strange turn of events, everything was going smoothly. I found parking on 11th Ave near Hudson Yards. I successfully got the empty drives needed for filming. I was headed towards the airport with coffee, a whole hour early. I was pretty damn proud of myself.

Then, while putting ice in a cooler, I shut the trunk door locking in the car keys. 

You know when things are going too well to the point you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop? Like the iconic troupe of a character saying “What can possibly happen?” and then there’s a cut to total chaos? That happens to me all the time. My co-worker at a job once called me “a real life cartoon character.” 

When things like this happen, my brain always does the usual routine: panic. Panic and list every bad possible outcome. Think every negative thought you can possibly have. When alone, I’m never the type of person to just chuckle, shake my head, look at the camera and go: “Oh well, that’s life!” Sitting on the roof of the car, waiting for the locksmith, I was convinced the job I was on would fire me. Convinced they would never recommend me to anyone. They were probably all texting each other now, talking about how big of an idiot I was. I’d never find work again. My parents would, *gasp*, scold me. 

A week after the car incident, an anticipated date cancelled on me. I was on the subway when he texted. I had used my last $2.75, got off at the wrong stop to transfer, and walked home in the rain. To add to the melodrama, “Terrible Love” by The National came on shuffle. A perfectly good eyeliner job wasted on yet another man.

Everything that is supposed to run smoothly almost never does. In a rush somewhere? Stuck in a freak traffic accident. About to relax to dinner? Cheese is moldy, have to go out in the rain to get more. Naked with burn cream all over your fingers? Fire alarm goes off in the dorm. It feels like right when I’m beginning to relax, something goes wrong. I fully admit I don’t handle it well. Negative thoughts lead to panic attacks. Panic attacks lead to meds. Consuming more meds means running out of meds quicker. Which then means having to go up to Westchester to get more from the doctor. Then I’ll have to call to make an appointment, and the receptionist is always mean to me. Said appointment will fall in the middle of the week. Which means 2 hours of travel for a 5 minute appointment. See? Nothing is easy! Or at least...my mind will turn it into the most difficult task imaginable. 

I’m 25. I do not have the wisdom yet of an adult. I’m still figuring myself out. Still trying to find some stability when it comes to work, love, family, and friends. It’s a lot. There are days when those things sometimes feel like they’re teetering, and then, to have a minor inconvenience come along? My mind falls off the edge. When overall life doesn’t seem to be going smoothly, to have five minutes of your life go unplanned can feel longer. A burned quesadilla can feel like the end of the world.

Obviously, it’s all about mindset. Changing how we mentally handle things can’t be done with a flip of a switch, but I can at least try to change my outlook. Since starting therapy, I found my best audience to be my therapist. When video conferencing with her, the dramatic monologues I had in my head comes out as a babbling and outrageous rant. 

So I cope how I always do: relate it to pop culture. I’ve come to imagine that whoever rules the universe, whether that be God or Satan, is writing some sitcom and I’m it’s protagonist. They put me in these situations for someone else to laugh at. Viewing it from that lens is calming actually. How can you not laugh at the chaos of it all? It’s so overdone that we just laugh at the clique. It’s the only way keeping me sane. 

This is all just a 30 minute episode in my life, so might as well be in on the joke.