Danger: Beware of the Bitch
Even in her most emotional, vulnerable state, crying and spinning inexplicably, Sally Sampson's inner bitch never strays too far away...
It’s been an interesting week.
I had a panic attack induced by extreme hormonal activity on my part a few days ago actually. To be honest, it hasn’t just been about the hormones or the fact that my menstruation is all off (I know, too much information…); it’s been a long time coming. Plus, I am (by human standards, anyway) fairly crazy, by my own admission, which doesn’t help.
Let’s just say I knew something was wrong as soon as I started crying while watching the music video to Justin Bieber’s As Long As You Love Me. It was rock bottom for me… Enjoying the song is bad enough, but being moved to tears (and I don’t mean a tear or two; I mean full on ugly-crying with my face muscles in convulsion) by it is just another level of depressing.
I used to think that I was fairly easy-going because I took everything with a grain of salt, but after this week I’ve decided that I’m doing it wrong. Apparently, I’m adding more than a grain of salt to everything I mentally ingest and as a result my brain and my emotions are bloated with unwanted activity.
I also wish I could say my psychotic ‘episode’ ended with me turning off Bieber, washing my face and ordering a muffin from TBS but of course, it didn’t. In the middle of my ugly cry, and with the imaginary cameras following me in my minds-eye, I went to the mirror and for some reason, I felt that my face had aged drastically! It felt that I had aged since I had last looked in the mirror earlier that very day! In fact. I could see worry lines that hadn’t been there before deepening by the second, like an ancient engraving carved in stone being uncovered by a team of archaeologists, before my very eyes and, GOD HELP ME, it felt like my nose was growing. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it. It was happening before my very eyes and I had not seen it coming. How could I not have seen it coming? Time really was a bigger bitch than me!
At the old age of 25, I started considering the possibilities of plastic surgery for the first time in my life and I was so tempted to grab the nearest permanent marker and start drawing lines on my face like they do on TV, to help speed up the process for the surgeons.
Then I ditched the idea quickly because I remembered that I am a feminist and decided to put my arms out and twirl around in circles while listening to Mirrors by Justin Timberlake, which of course only reminded me of the fact that I’m single. True love was not in the cards for me, I quickly realised, as I was spinning around, crying. So I cried louder. Soon, I had to stop spinning though because I have motion sickness and I didn’t want to have to clean up my own vomit off the carpet, but I continued to cry because, you know what? I needed to cry!
And all of this happened in UNDER seven minutes! I know! Talk about fucking intense!
That was only the start of my overall deterioration. I won’t give you the rest of the gritty details, but that particular day ended with me lying in my bed in the foetal position, hugging my hot-water bottle under my blanket, crying (of course, crying) and doing something between praying to God to save me and singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Eventually, I dozed off, but not before I heard my mom mumbling something outside my door about me being a) crazy and b) finally possessed by demons. God love her.
A few days later, I woke up relatively human again and I was able to talk without inappropriately exploding with emotion, so I seized the opportunity, quickly took a stand with myself and decided to stage an intervention to get to the bottom of my (very, very disturbed) behaviour.
I went to the mirror again, realised that my face was fine, but imagined, yet again, that the imaginary cameras were pointed at me. And as I was seeking the Zen within me and trying to find an inner wisdom and focus buried deep within the caverns of my soul, as I attempted to muster something so profound that only masters of meditation could conjure, I shit you not… this is what went through my mind:
I’m starting with the man in the mirror,
I’m asking him to change his ways,
And no message could’ve been any clearer,
If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a CHAY-ANGE!!! NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH!
Michael Jackson. I looked into the mirror and I saw Michael fucking Jackson. My pool of inner wisdom, in that moment, was reduced to a puddle. Despondent, I walked away from the mirror.
To be honest, now that I think about it, I think I’m going through some kind of mid-twenties crisis because my life isn’t what I imagined it would be when I was fifteen...Which is pathetic! Don’t think I don’t know that! I am fully aware that the previous sentence is possibly one of the dumbest things ever said or written, and we live in a world where Paris Hilton exists, so that’s saying something.
According to my initial plan though, I should have been well into having my third child with Leonardo Di Caprio, I should’ve at least been nominated for an Oscar and I should be speaking five languages fluently by now. The reality is I still live with my parents, I’m still getting my acting career off the ground, I’m only fluent in two and a half languages and I’m thinking of freezing my eggs because the idea of having a baby within the next 25 years terrifies the crap out of me.
The thing is usually, I’m fine! I take one day at a time; I’m focused and I have my short-term and my long-term goals out ahead of me. The sun is shining. I’m even walking on sunshine. The world is my oyster, blablabla!
Every once in a while, though, and without warning, I freak out. I compulsively devour boxes of Dairy Milk chocolate (plain or hazelnut), consider getting a few piercings, and imagine what the world would be like if Tom Cruise walked into my living room and, with an intensity rivalled only in the knotted brows of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street, said to me “Sally, you complete me.”
Every once in a while this happens and people strategically avoid me when it does, unless they have to work with me (poor bastards). Every once in a while, things don’t make sense, but I’ve realised, after many many many years, that letting out steam is okay, and I need to stop telling myself that I’m easy-going and accept that things will get to me every once in a while. I’m resilient, but I’m not bullet-proof. And I have to stop chastising myself for being emotional and unreasonable, every once in a while. It’s just the way I am!
There’s a moody BITCH within each and every one of us, after all; mine just has a multiple personality disorder. Despite this, I love my inner BITCH, because, even though, every once in a while, she’ll bite me in the ass when I’m not looking and I’ll need to get a rabies shot because I almost immediately start metaphorically foaming at the mouth, the reality is: I can’t do any of this without her. Through thick and thin, she’s all I got to get me through.
In fact, the only thing that is I can say and indeed, the only thing that is left to say, with absolute confidence (and no tears, thank GOD!): INNER BITCH, YOU COMPLETE ME! (Screw you, Tom Cruise!)
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