What About the Squirrels? Won’t Someone Think of the Squirrels?
So, how do you know you’ve fallen into a depressive episode? I think to answer this question you have to dig really deep; you need to ask yourself, very honestly: how are you feeling about the squirrels?
Do you, for example, root a little too much for a squirrel to make it to safety that darts into traffic? Or, I dunno, find yourself watching squirrel movements at the park wondering if they have memories beyond their basic survival instincts? Hey, maybe the sight of a dead squirrel in the road prompts you to question the nature of god and man, throwing you into a dark contemplation of existentialism…?
I would say, if this is the case, you might be depressed.
And in my case, you might be depressed again.
“So last time you were here, you said that ‘you wore embarrassment like a cloak.’ Are you still feeling that way?”
I love it when Dr. Z, the best psychopharmacologist a girl could ever have, quotes my words back to me. I really said that? That’s mad poetic.
“No. Now it’s more like a small handbag located in my chest,” I tell her.
Inside I’m thinking that it’s like a Judith Leiber handbag, all Swarovski crystals and shaped like a small dumb dog or something stupid, and it probably has a pink crystal tongue hanging from it’s white crystal mouth, and people are wondering how I could’ve paid $1,500 for a clutch-sized puppy minaudiere. ‘But it’s Leiber!’ I plead, as if the name brand makes it any less hideous and they’ll finally let me in their club.
But I don’t relay this to Dr. Z because really, it’s size that matters (amiright, ladies?) and for her, “small handbag” trumps “cloak” any day. (And honestly, all those thoughts are freakin’ nuts, right?)
“See? You are getting better,” she says, smiling.
But what about the squirrels? And don’t even get me started on the dogs.
Every morning I hit the Interstate to head to work. I hate it. And beyond the idiots texting and driving, and the semis cutting me off going 70 MPH, and my inbox on my phone dinging every few seconds with a new message, I think most of my anxiety comes from passing the dogs.
Every once in a while I’ll come across the carcass of a dead dog- pure breeds, mutts, big and small- that are butted up against the middle highway divider and I think, how the hell did it get there? Did someone push it out? How could someone do that? What’s wrong with people? Are we all bad and have to learn to be good, or are we all good and some of us learn to be bad?
And, sweet god, then there’s the SPCA yard strategically placed next to the highway.
They take select dogs outside to play around 8 a.m. and you can watch them while stuck in traffic. And the dogs are running and barking with each other in their separate cage runs and I can’t help but think, how long have you got, puppy? Will you make it? Do you know how much danger you’re in? And, is the life of a human worth more than a dog? Why? And I think about what it means to be an individual in this overly-populous world and how many millions of people came before us and wondered the same thing and how now they’re all gone and forgotten and what really matters anyway? And what does it mean to be born if there are thousands just like you born at the same time? What’s the purpose of all this crap? And how I eschew predestination, my decisions are my fate! Which brings me back to the fact that my brain is not capable of making the best decisions at the moment because I’m pretty sure I’m depressed. (Again.)
So driving to work can be pretty stressful.
“You’re still catastrophizing, I see,” says Dr. Z, which is like the best word ever created in the English language.
Annnnd that’s the tricky part of depression. There’s a moment when your daily worry and anxiety begins to take over and, if you’re a pro at this like me, you realize it and jump on the problem. And it should be fixed, right?
But there’s still this very serious little voice, probably coming from the handbag inside my chest, that keeps telling me, “wait a second. Aren’t these all valid questions and concerns? Aren’t these the things we’re supposed to mull over? Didn’t Gilgamesh question the same things in the earliest inklings of organized society? Maybe it’s actually good to keep thinking these things. Maybe everyone else is dead inside. Do you really want to live in a world that’s dead inside? Do you? Do you??”
And it’s really actually very hard to break away from that voice and remember that, no, you don’t need to worry like this. You feel better when you don’t. And there’s a freedom in feeling like your old self again. It’s just- the longer you stray into your depression, the harder it is to remember your old self.
So I pick points of reference. The squirrels, for example.
I can very easily discern that other people around me are not as concerned about the lifespan of squirrels as much as I am. That helps me plot a spot on my map that I need to get back to. For instance, Mister Short Tail squirrel that comes around my front yard in the morning seems like a nice guy and all, but I don’t need to get a tightness in my chest worrying about where he sleeps at night.
That, my friends, is not normal. And thank god I still know that.
“I’m going to give you what I call ‘the reset button,’” Dr. Z says. “I give it to all my patients who I would say are in ‘distress.’”
She then goes on to tell me that in the future, medicine will be able to diagnose and treat depression based on genetic makeup and I think, hey! That’s hopeful! Maybe treating this crap will get easier in the future! Maybe I won’t relapse at all! And maybe, possibly I will be able to have kids and not pass on this hideous, hideous, evil, puppy-purse, disgusting disease.
And then I go home and take the “reset button” pill, a tiny thing not bigger than your pinky nail, and it knocks me out for two days. And I wake up and have perspective again. I have literally been rebooted. I’m feeling better.
So I’m back on that morning drive to work and I hear a woman on the radio talking about yoga. Her teacher, she says, always tells the class, “keep your thoughts inside the four corners of your mat.” The woman says she uses this everyday because it reminds her “stay in the present, focus on your needs.”
And I add out loud, “and don’t worry so much about the squirrels.”
Fame is Fleeting. Like, srsly, Really Fleeting.
Please sit down. I have something I need to tell you.
On March 7, 2011, for about 30 minutes, I, Ellen Paige Phelps, trended in Los Angeles.
I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “Silly, I’m sure you mean that Ellen PAGE, the delightfully hip actress, was trending.” Or, if you’re my mom, “What’s trending?” To which I say, NO and TRENDING TOPICS ARE THE MOST BUZZED ABOUT PHRASES ON TWITTER AT ANY GIVEN TIME AND SHOW UP IN A LIST ON THE TWITTER HOMEPAGE. (Sorry I yelled at you, mom.)
But seriously. It’s true, “Ellen Paige” was trending in the greater Los Angeles area and that just happens to not only be my name, but my exact Twitter handle: @ellenpaige.
Let me tell you more.
It was Monday night. I had just settled down into the notch of my couch carved by my butt and countless episodes of House Hunters, when glamour found me. I did not seek glamour out, mind you; it found me. For reasons unknown to me at the time, my Twitter feed was suddenly filled a bevy of emotional messages from total strangers.
Such as, but not limited to:
@vickihopton Turn the page on @ellenpaige peeps (a taunt that’s haunted me since grade school.)
Love messages: @francokimbo amo a @ellenpaige
The use of “bi itch ass,” which is probably a type of skin condition: @soprettybre u curse a lot stop crusing bt itch ass do u like that then stop dam i a kid and theres kids on here
I was even part of Internet spam!
@Trudi676 - See why this woman ki11ed herself correct after wedding [link] #Ellen#Paige
Yey!
And then there was one Tweet that threw me for a loop:
@VickyCNCowell at least spell her name right ELLEN PAGE
OK, hold up. What?
Let me tell you one thing right here and now, folks. My name is Ellen Paige. This is not a plot, or a ploy, or some sort of GAME; I am not trying to ride that hot, 4-year old Juno bandwagon, or attract a hipster fanboy with an disturbingly late-blooming vocal crack and a patina of shame. No. THIS IS MY NAME. Ellen Paige Phelps. You can thank my mother, whose name is Steven. (Yes.)
I mean, I clearly stated upfront all along I am not, nor am I pretending to be, an Oscar-nominated actress. I took precautions! My profile, for example, quite clearly states that I am Ellen Paige Phelps from Texas. (This, after I had to dumb it down a little from “You guys know I’m not Ellen Page, right? I’m Ellen Paige. Totes different,” because that just had too many damn words and letters in it and, therefore, an inordinate amount of men kept telling me I was “sexxxxy in Whip It.”)
I never claimed to be Ellen Page! I’ve always said I was Ellen Paige! What was happening? Was this the future!???
As you can see, this was beginning to freak me out, so I told the Twitterverse.
Hi World. I am Paige from Texas. And you are freaking me out.
Now, with mirth and wrath of TENS of Twitters focused on me and that extra “i” in my name, I needed to find out why so many, many (15 maybe? Prolly at least 25.) people could not figure out exactly why my avatar on my @ellenpaige’s Twitter page was not actually an avatar of Ellen Page and was, in fact, me (a disguise perhaps? Cunning.)
The answer was easy to find. Well, it wasn’t easy for me because, like, I barely know how to use the new Twitter format— which I HATE, btw— it’s easier to Tweet from my phone now than my laptop, which seems counterintuitive, right? Anyway. Someone Twittered me the answer.
@adamlambert: I have a crush on Ellen Paige.
There it is, momandtheothertwopeoplereadingthis. The Tweet that sent me trending in L.A. and the reason that W3II4 told all of his/her 13 followers,
@W3II4 Lucky girl who owns the Twitter account @EllenPaige
Yes, it’s true. Adam Lambert, the one-time American Idol 2nd place finisher and controversial man-licker, mistook his crush for me when he really is heartsick for another. Luck be a lady tonight— one without an “i” in her name, friends.
But luck is a two-sided coin (for the purposes of this fantastic segue), and that other side of said coin is scratched up so bad, vending machines won’t accept it, W3ll4.
Because about 15 minutes after “Ellen Paige” started trending in the greater Los Angeles area, it was gone. I was soon replaced by #bootyappreciationday, which was the satirical companion piece to #womenappreciationday. (Those kids! Hilarious!)
I was left behind without so much as a second thought. Left to wedge my #booty deeper into the indent in my sofa and ponder the implications of Internet fame, the rise of social media, and what the hell is wrong with America. Because, Ladies and gentlemen, truly, our schools have failed us and we are doomed. Like, really fucked, okay? D-O-O-M-E-D.
But enough of that.
After the dust settled and I was left wondering when and if I would ever be able to launch my comeback career in Twitter trending topics, a girl named Brittany from Sacramento (nowhere near L.A., btw), of 353 followers, Tweeted me.
@Tribyen I can’t imagine how weird it would be to randomly see one’s name trending. you handled fame gracefully ;) haha
Haha, indeed, Brittany. Haha.
