Tara Schuster - Buy Yourself the Fucking Lilies: And Other Rituals to Fix Your Life, from Someone Whos Been There

Its three P.M. and Ive just woken up on top of my aggressively floral duvet, fully dressed. Im in my best Girls Night Out ensemble: black Spanx, black tights, and a black sequined Forever 21 number that looks particularly cheap in daylight. Im sweaty AF. I pull my hair as hard as I can to offset the pain of my crushing migraine. There is an uneaten, unexplained grilled cheese sandwich lying next to me. This is not a good look.

This is the wreckage after my twenty-fifth birthday. I cant recall the night before beyond a haze of dancing and some of the usual light sobbing. I should smoke weed, I think. I should blur this moment out and drift away on a cloud of smoke. But recently, weed has been making me sick. I think Ive smoked my lifetimes allotment, and now my once trusty crutch gives me heartburn and paranoia. Plus, the weed is all the way in my bathroom-slash-closet-slash-study, which I can see just beyond the kitchen-slash-hallway-slash-dining-room of my studio apartment. That ten-foot walk seems like too much right now.

I grab my iPhoneTHANK THE LORD I have not lost it again!to Yelp breakfast sandwich delivery. I see I have three missed calls and voicemails from my therapist. The therapist who seemed to be the only doctor on the isle of Manhattan, and possibly on planet Earth, willing to take my insurance. Why would she be calling me on a Saturday night? Supz weird. I listen to the messages.

Message one:

Hi Tara, its Dr. Goldstein. I havent heard back from you so Im recommending you go to the hospital, okay? Are you listening to me? There is no shame in that. You need to be around people right now. Nothing matters except for your safety, okay? Please, call me when you get this.

Whaaat? What an extreme message. Why would Dr. Goldstein leave something so creepy and ominous? Why would I go to the hospital?!

Message deleted.

Message two:

Tara, its me again, Dr. Goldstein trying to reach you. Listen, Im going to bed soon, but I need you to call me. Okay? Im concerned. Really, really concerned. Are you alone? Do you have friends you can be with? Please call me as soon as you get this.

Okay, what the actual fuck? Why was she trying to reach me last night? Think, Tara, think!

Message deleted.

Message three:

Hi Tara, its Dr. Goldstein. I got your message, and, through the tears, I could hear how much pain youre in. Im so sorry you are feeling this way on your birthday. Im really worried about you. You said you feel unbearably sad and that you hate yourself. You said there is nothing left to hope for and you dont see a way out, but Tara, I just have to say, there is so much to live for. There is a healthy part of you. That part of you called me and reached out. The healthy part wants to survive and shine. Are you thinking of hurting yoursel f? Thats whats really concerning me. Ive just never heard you this desperate. Please dont do anything rash. I promise, you will get through this. Call me back as soon as you get this.

Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

I drunk-dialed my therapist.

I drunk-dialed my therapist and apparently wanted to hurt myself, and she, a woman who is perma-calm, whom I have never seen without a cup of tea and a placid smile, was so disturbed that she thought I should check myself into a hospital. WHAT HAVE I DONE?

The memories of the past night come flooding in like a tall wave I cant swim over. Here I am at my birthday dinner with my BFF drinking an unknown number of dirty martinis. Here she is ditching me early. Here I am dancing alone in a museum feeling sorry for myself. Here is a security guard telling me The party is over, miss before escorting me out. Here I am feeling super pathetic. Here isa blurandI dont know how I got home exactly? Here I am taking drunk, sad selfies, posing in front of my bathroom mirror. Here I am in said bathroom alternating between crying and vomiting over the toilet.

I feel a shame that sparks in my belly, creeps up my chest, and sets my heart on fire with hate. I hate myself. I hate the things I do. I hate my body. I hate this double life of being good at work and bad at life. Ive always been dogged about getting ahead, in school and in my job, so its always looked like everything is okay, but things are decidedly not okay. Im humiliated that Im the type of person who is so out of control that she drunk-dials her therapist. Im exhausted in my guts. Im worn down from the hate and the drinking and the smoking and the crying and the just living from one crisis to the next crisis and I am SoTiredSoAshamedSoDesperate. This is a life I can no longer live. This is a life that will kill me.