People love roller coasters. Okay, there's always gonna be that friend with a vertigo problem or propensity toward nausea who can't stand roller coasters, or pregnant ladies, or people with bad backs, but for the most part, people love roller coasters. They're called "thrill rides" for a reason. Up, down, up, down, loop upside down at 70 miles per hour. Nobody goes to the amusement park just to sit on a bench.
I had to work my way up to roller coasters as a kid. The High Roller was my favorite. It wasn't super high and at the end there were three hills in a row and you got that fun feeling of your stomach about to fall out of your throat (okay, it's "fun" when you're nine. Maybe not so much now). The first time I went on the Corkscrew I had to ride with a stranger who was a teenage boy and I was an effete child and I was so terrified of both him and the ride that I blacked out for 45 seconds. I don't remember anything about it, about the boy's friends laughing at the picture that was taken and wanting to buy it. I worked my way up to ones like Wild Thing and Steel Venom, and now I love roller coasters. Flip me upside down, send me down the hill. I went on the Cyclone at Coney Island and it was so rickety I had to take muscle relaxers for a week when I got home. I have kissed friends, made friends, and pretended to be asleep on the Wild Thing when it's time for the picture. I will scream with a smile and want to do it all over again if the lines aren't too long.
Roller coasters are exhilarating and unpredictable. They're wild, they're crazy, they're fun.
But here's the catch: They are also only meant to last a short amount of time. They are not designed to be enjoyed forever. At some point, the ride has to come to a complete stop. What if you were on the Wild Thing all day long? You have to get off the roller coaster. You can't be on the roller coaster all day long. Stop the ride. I'm feeling sick. Again? No, please. I know what's coming now. We go down the hill. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't feel well. I want to stop but now people are screaming and I have to pretend I'm having fun WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
The roller coaster finally derailed somewhere between 2 and 3 A.M. on New Year's Day 2017. It may have seemed like an abrupt stop to the ride, but it had been a long fucking time coming.
***
But Before All That
But first we're gonna talk about boys, because this is still Loring Park (adjacent) and the sponsors need their eye candy.
"We need a Mary and Rhoda night," said Jared on an 11 P.M. phone call, and we made our way to The Saloon on a Wednesday night. I was just sad. Sad about money, sad about being a failure in all aspects of my life, sad about my propensity to make mountains out of molehills. Hell, it wasn't molehills. I created continents. If I had actually just talked to people about what I had been going through or perceiving as reality, maybe it would have all been better. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted to keep running away.
Paul Ryan was at The Saloon and looked good. Despite my protests, he bought us Vegas Bombs. I flirted ridiculously. I was being that basic bitch, because when Paul was a bit heavier I hadn't been giving him the time of day, and now he had a good body again and I was throwing myself at him. If I didn't know myself, I would hate myself. Oh, wait. I did anyway. He let me flirt for 10 minutes before telling me he had a boyfriend, and I apologized for my boner. At least I'm polite when I'm shallow.
"We haven't done it," he said.
"That means you really like him," I pouted.
***
I haggled with the lawyers in Florida after being sued by Discover and finally got it figured out. My wages will still be garnished with Capital One, but come 2018, I'll actually get to, like, keep the money I'm making. What a novel idea! I drove to the library to work on my book but instead I had to deal with that and didn't make it to the computer at all.
I went to the library the next day and wrote everyone letters, telling them what I was thankful for and what I was sorry for. I only had an hour and didn't write everything I wanted. I put them in manila envelopes as if they were legal documents. I wasn't sure how they would be received but realized that wasn't in my control. I went on Facebook and chronicled happy memories and realized that my year did not entirely suck, despite the overwhelming narrative.
Remember the gorgeous tall boy who I met at the '90s? He moved to California, as all my crushes do, but he was in town for the holidays. His gal pal was blowing up my phone to let me know he was in town. She wanted to hang out and Reid and I met up with them at The Saloon for karaoke. I walked up to him just in time for my rendition of "What a Man".
He was just as tall, blonde, and tan as ever, and Reid and I danced up on him while I rapped. He was with a boy and I wasn't sure if they were dating or not, and I didn't want to be that girl. Also, the boy was short like me and also named Jake so I just felt weird about the whole thing. I bought the tall boy some lemon drops and tried to make small talk about Hillcrest. Tall Boy doesn't talk a lot. He just smiles a lot. I talk enough for the both of us so I was okay with it.
"He's so beautiful," his gal pal kept yelling. "I can't stand it."
"Me neither," I agreed, although I think our reasons for not being able to stand it might have been different. I learned a lot about Gal Pal's job and she was just as sweet and friendly as she had been in July.
Tall Boy fell over a stool and we had to leave.
"I have to go to the bathroom first," he said.
"Okay, hurry," I said. I took his hand and we ran into Chuck! But I didn't have time to talk! I had to bring this supermodel to the bathroom!
"You seem busy," said Chuck with a knowing smile.
"I'll talk later," I whined. "We have to leave!" We went in the bathroom and he tried to kiss me, but he was drunk! I felt bad! I mean, I had been drinking too, but I wasn't, like, drunnnkkkkk. But he's so beautiful! Aaaaah! I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him with all the sexuality of Macaulay Culkin and Anna Chlumsky in "My Girl", and if I noticed his impossibly sculpted body pressed up against mine, it was a complete accident.
Tall Boy, his date (?), gal pal and I went in an Uber to the gal pal's apartment. Tall Boy is probably 6'1" -- I always thought he was 6'4"or above because Gal Pal is 4'11" and on the two occasions I've seen him he's been with her -- so I told him to stretch his legs out across my lap. We got out of the cab and realized he lost his shoe.
"HOW DO YOU LOSE A SHOE?!" Gal Pal kept yelling. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" But I understood. I lose things all the time. I imagined us having a beautiful future together, living on the beaches of Southern California. Every day would be a new cell phone, drivers' license, or pair of shoes. We would both work extra hours to reimburse ourselves for the cost of all these new things, but we would be happy and tan. Okay, he would be super tan because I can't get tan to save my life, but we would still both be happy, having a wonderful and happy life of laughter and lost articles.
***
OK, We'll Talk About It (Kind Of, Because This is My Blog and I Still Get to Be Cryptic About Some Stuff)
Maybe listening to Mariah Carey's rendition of "Auld Lang Syne" over and over was a bad omen. I would later joke that I went nuts because I love Mariah Carey and I didn't want her to have a worse New Year's Eve than me.
I love New Year's Eve. I love dressing up and being with friends and having shots and seeing all the boys. There are so many events going on but we decided to just do The Saloon. Reid was going to a house party as he hates big crowds and Jared had to work. Steve, Joey and I were going to be the Three Musketeers and we were all going to have fun. It's my third favorite day of the year, after my birthday and Pride weekend (Pride weekend counts as one day because it all blurs together). I looked forward to finding out who would awkwardly avoid eye contact with me at midnight.
Um, it was not my favorite day this year. I had spent all year thinking that I was the Lisa Vanderpump of my group and in reality I had turned into Taylor Armstrong.
Maybe I shouldn't have had all that champagne or the energy drinks. Maybe I should have stayed home. Maybe I should have been honest with everyone, and that included myself.
I remember pre-gaming. I remember getting in the Uber to the club. I remember flirting. I remember midnight. And I don't remember anything that happened in the club after that. 12 to 2? NADA. But I do remember feeling riled up, getting a ride home (I don't remember how), and impulsively acting in a way self-destructive enough that brought me to Hennepin County Medical Center. I KNOW. And I know that it looks like teenage girl bullshit drama shenanigans. And maybe it was. What people didn't know -- or maybe they did and didn't know what to say about it -- is that this had been going on forever. This does not make me special or unique, as 1 in 5 people will have mental illness at some point in their lives. And that doesn't excuse my behavior, either.
I miraculously remembered to bring my phone charger.
My neighbor invited me over via Facebook and I assumed he was joking because he lives right across from me and probably saw the ambulance parked in front of my house for ten minutes. "I'm in a hospital," I wrote back. "Long story." "Don't die," he responded. It was the only contact I would have with anyone, as they soon would take all my belongings, which I asked about constantly.
"I lose everything," I said. "It'll take the cake if I go to the ER and end up losing my wallet again." I couldn't even keep my Listerine Strips! I was still in my fancy New Year's Eve outfit (quite banging, I will say, as unbangable as I had been lately) which was soon to be replaced with a hospital gown. I accidentally showed the Buff Daddy security guard my ass. Three times. He was nice enough to not vomit. Then I vomited anyway.
"Someone's been doing his sit-ups," a nurse said as he placed electrodes all over me and tightened my restraints. This was my lowest, most vulnerable moment as an adult and I was being hit on. It was the nicest thing anyone could have ever done for me.
They gave me a jar to pee in but my bladder was too shy so I just laid there miserable and full-bladdered and I was in and out a lot. I had no idea what time it was. I just wanted my mom, but she would have been sooooooo pissed. I had stepped in it this time. There were no do-overs. And I was dizzy. I prefer to sleep under the covers, but that wasn't an option.
"We need to be able to see your face, bud," said a dreamy intake nurse. I imagined a June wedding.
I was finally wheeled upstairs, to some far-away area in the hospital that felt like it was all the way in St. Paul. A young nurse was there with burgundy scrubs for me to put on. They were too big.
"Jacob Emmret?" he asked.
"Emmert," I slurred.
"Emmret," he repeated.
"Yeah, sure," I said.
"We've been waiting for you. Can you change clothes by yourself?"
"Mmm-hmm," I said, now feeling very accomplished.
A young nurse named April came in and I thought we would be best friends but she seemed pissed. I'd be pissed if I had to work overnight on New Year's Eve, too!
"How old are you?" she asked.
"30," I said. Oh, God. I would later realize they put it on my bracelet in big fat numbers. Emmert, Jacob (30 yrs). Like, I get the picture. Don't rub it in. This year sucked!
"Are you married or single?" she asked.
"Single," I said and almost burst into tears.
"Do you work full-time?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a good relationship with your family?"
"Yes."
"They live close by?"
"Yes."
"Have you lost or gained weight significantly in the past six months?"
"I lost 15 pounds." But I had gained 10 last year, so lol idk.
She interrogated me further, very business-like. Asked about my workplace, my insurance, my emergency contact (which was Erin, who lives in Europe -- I was too tired or ambivalent to correct her, and the only other phone number I have memorized was my mother's and I still didn't want her to know anything) and I was terse and calm in my answers until the questions got scarier.
"Do you think you need to be in a hospital for a while?"
Don't pause too long. They'll keep you here forever and you have shitty insurance.
"No," I said. I was going to miss brunch. Also, I had been in the hospital twice in 2000 and maybe it was different because I was a juvenile, but I remember that you don't get to pick when you go home. They do. The rule was that the kids who wanted to stay were discharged and the kids who wanted to leave had to stay. In my April stint I was the former and in my August-September stint I was the latter.
"If you go home, will you hurt yourself?"
"No."
"Will you hurt others?"
"God, no."
Then she stopped for dramatic effect.
"So what's going on with you?" she asked.
"I just don't need to be here anymore," I mustered. "I'm being sued. My life isn't going anywhere. My mom is 60 and busting her ass to take care of me. I think about death constantly. I've been acting like a middle-schooler to everyone."
Am I going to be here forever? Does anyone know I'm here? I ruined their New Year's Eve. They're probably all burning my stuff in the backyard and having a bonfire. AND I WOULD DESERVE IT.
"Your roommate called?" she said in a statement but she lifted her voice as if she was asking me a question.
I finally looked up.
"Steve?" she asked/clarified, in case I thought my roommate was Channing Tatum.
"Was he mad?"
"I can't tell you anything he said."
"Ugh. That means he was mad." April was not being a girl's girl. She was doing that second grade thing when your frenemy is like, I know a secret but I can't tell you. Nah nah nah boo boo and then you later find out that Corey likes Amanda and you're like, I knew that a week ago. Duhhhhh.
She sighed.
"You're not under 18 and you haven't signed any consent forms. I can't release any information about you. I only told him you're safe. The doctor's gonna interview you later."
She shut the door.
There were no clocks and the blinds were shut. I skipped every meal that was offered, and that is how I would guess what time it was.
The doctor came in at some point after whenever "dinner" was.
"How do you feel?"
"Groggy."
"Do you think you need to be in treatment for substance abuse?"
"No."
"Alcohol is a depressant. You're depressed. Do you think that's good for you?"
But I'm the fun one.
"Have you been hospitalized for depression before?"
"In 2000."
"What was going on?"
"I was gay and feminine and felt bad about it."
"Were you on medication for it?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"Zoloft and Risperdal, and then Paxil."
"Did you stop?'
"I quit cold turkey in 11th grade."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I didn't like the sexual side effects and when I tried talking to my mom about it, it didn't go over very well, so I just stopped. I think I did it as kind of a Fuck You. Sorry. I shouldn't swear."
"Are you in a relationship?"
"No."
"Have you had a relationship end recently?"
Ugggggghhhhh. We're still on that?
"Sort of." To both "relationship" and "recently".
"Do you think you need to be in the hospital for a while?"
That loaded question again. I paused too long.
"We're at least keeping you overnight. I think you're still too groggy to answer my questions. We'll talk to you in the morning. It was nice to meet you, Jacob. I hope you feel better."
A woman came in who screamed and yelled the entire night. She wouldn't go to Abbott. Her son needed her. She wanted to stay with her friend and not her mom. She couldn't miss work. I know I had no clock, but this went on for hours. The doctor told her if she woke any of us up she'd be in trouble. I was too tired to walk outside and tell her to shut the fuck up. My mouth was dryer than the Sahara and I just wanted Listerine Strips and a gallon of Sprite.
"YOU SHOULD BE TREATING ME LIKE A PRINCESS!" she yelled at some point after she realized the damsel-in-distress act wasn't going to get over.
I'm a queen and I outrank you! I wanted to yell. Instead I just put the covers over my head, an apt metaphor for how I had been dealing with problems all year. Every time I stood up I still felt too dizzy to walk.
"LET ME GO HOME!!!!" she kept yelling. Then she would violently puke in the bathroom and come back outside and sob her head off. The person in the room next to me had a television. I had nothing but my thoughts and the Moaning Myrtle of HCMC. (Yes, I worked a Harry Potter reference into this story. Ten points for Hufflepuff.)
"You're not under arrest," a doctor kept saying. "You're in a psych hold."
"I DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!!!!!" she yelled.
This went on all night. Any sleep I got was in ten-minute intervals.
I had a pre-scheduled doctor's appointment at 10 A.M. that Monday and if I didn't show up, my insurance would charge me anyway (they said they made exceptions for "special cases" and this was pretty fucking special, but I was still worried about it). At some point in the morning, I said I wanted to go home.
"The doctor needs to see you first," a nurse said. "But we'll start to give you your things."
I think I wanted my Listerine Strips even more than I wanted my phone.
A different doctor came in. Uh-oh!
"Do you think you can go home?" she asked.
"I've had a lot of time by myself to think," I said. "And I have a good support system. My mother lives close by. I have a lot of apologies to make, but I really do have good friends, and I have two doctor's appointments this week." One was for ADD testing and the other was a therapist. I booked those weeks prior in a random burst of adulting.
"Are you gonna hurt yourself when you get home?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Are you gonna drink?"
"No," I said. It was 7:30 in the morning!
"I'll get your discharge papers. You can get dressed."
She got up to leave, then turned around.
"If you do this again, you might be successful," she said. "Even if you don't really want to be."
When I got dressed and left the room, the incredibly loud woman was still outside in the lobby (conveniently located RIGHT OUTSIDE OF MY ROOM). She was pacing but had calmed down. She looked nothing like I had pictured her in my mind. She scanned me up and down and I was worried she would start yelling again, wondering how come I got to leave and she couldn't.
Instead she smiled.
"You look nice," she smiled. "You look really nice."
"Thank you," I said. "It was my New Year's Eve outfit."
I buttoned my sport coat and smiled back at her with quivering lips, then looked out the window for the first time in 30 hours.
"I love New Year's Eve."
***
I turned my phone on when I got to the lobby. All the texts came at once. My mother told me to call her. I missed comedian brunch and gay brunch. Tall Boy had asked if I had plans and I facetiously told myself that was the biggest tragedy of the whole affair. ("I was in the loony bin," I texted him. "I hope you feel better," he said, and I thought that was surprisingly understanding). I took a cab home at 7:30 AM, not knowing what to expect. At first, I wanted to run away again but I didn't. I faced the music and I survived. I still felt groggy so I called in sick to work, which I never do! I don't think I could have done it emotionally. Every time a customer would ask "How was your New Years?" I would start bawling. I went to my doctor's appointment at 10 A.M. It was arduous ADD testing that is so long and boring that I think the tests give you ADD.
When I got back home, Steve took me to Red Lobster. It's just like the Beyonce song. "When my roommate comes home from the hospital after a psychotic breakdown, I take his ass to Red Lobster." Oh, wait, that's not it? I was tempted by the cocktail menu but had Sprite, gosh darn it. Our friend Hunter was the waiter and he is adorable and twinky, but he's nice so I don't feel threatened by him. He also, no lie, was very good at explaining the specials. I realized I hadn't had Red Lobster in ten years and I put ketchup on everything. We were the youngest people there by a margin of about 50 years. Then we went to Target and watched movies.
Maya Angelou said that when people show who you they are, believe them. I used to think that only applied when people are acting badly. On that day I learned that it also applies to how people treat you in moments of crisis. Upon my return, Steve would have had every right to be closed off, or leave, or tell me that I was a raging psycho who needed to go live with his mother for a while, with a laundry list of grievances. Instead he stuck around, drove because I didn't want to, and paid for lunch. He may have thought nothing of it, but everything he did and said that day was an act of grace and forgiveness that I certainly was not owed.
***
The following Thursday, I was asked to take part in Fifty First Jokes at the Brave New Workshop, where fifty comics tell their first jokes of the new year. I was nervous as hell because I hadn't been in the "comedy scene" for a while so I didn't know any of the new kids (and one of them was dreamy!), and the only new jokes I had written were about the hospital. Kinda bleak stuff. My jokes were well-received. The best part? I wasn't even the darkest person that night. Jeff Pfoser did two minutes about being at a funeral for a baby. Was it dark? Yes. Was it real? Yes. Did he get the only standing ovation of the night? Yes.
Brave New Workshop is right next to The Saloon, so I stopped to say hello to the kids but I had Diet Cokes because I was driving to stay at my mom's house that night since my appointment was in the morning. It was pretty quiet. Had this been a normal week, standing in line for my shame basket while lip-syncing to "Dreaming of You" by Selena and scaring the twinks with my caffeinated dance moves would have been the lowest point of the week.
My therapist is named Alexandria. She reminds me a lot of Erin. Her office has a green color scheme.
"My rule is that for the first five minutes we don't talk about the hard stuff," she said. That was fine! And then we got into the hard stuff, and that was fine, too. I showed her the picture of everyone on Christmas and explained who everyone was and how awful I had been to everybody (well, I haven't been awful to Greta since high school. Everyone else I had been awful to at some point in 2016).
"And I didn't have any fun in New York because I was so worried about being the ugly friend," I said while recapping the year.
"Maybe you need uglier friends," Alexandria offered. "Then you can be the pretty one."
"No, that's not a good reason to stop being friends with people," I said.
"Well, I don't think you're ugly at all," Alexandria said.
"I haven't even paid you yet," I said.
"I'm serious," she said. "I don't think there's anything bad about how you look."
We made short and long term goals and discussed depression, suicide, and anxiety.
"Nobody goes from 0 to 10," Alexandria said. "You probably think you are. But when you're freaking out at everyone, you probably were already at 8 on the inside."
TAKE ALL MY MONEY.
***
I had made peace with Jared and Reid, but I hadn't sat down with Joey yet, and we agreed to have lunch at the Black Forest Inn later that day. My mother came over and helped clean the apartment while I went, because I am still a garbage person dumpster fire. I was incredibly nervous and decided I would wear sunglasses the whole time. Also, it was Opposite Day because I got there first and that never happens. I really didn't know how it was gonna go. Joey had every right to "break up" with me, for lack of a better term, and it would hurt worse than any kind of romantic departure, even when the broski drove away in the pick-up and never came back. I imagined crying in my bed for a month, hearing him make plans with everyone else through the grapevine while I was banned from The Saloon.
I sat for ten minutes before he arrived. He looked like a million bucks. God damn it. Alexandria was right.
"So ... how was your week?" he awkwardly asked.
"My week was fantastic," I said. "How was yours?"
We both laughed.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything right away," he said. "I didn't really know what to do."
"There's no right or wrong way to react to it," I said.
We went to Glam Doll Donuts. Who needs anti-depressants when you have donuts? I went home to my clean house and took a nap in my clothes, because some things never change.
I had Sunday off but everyone else was working! My friend Sten was visiting from Germany and I planned on having a Sunday Funday. Joey texted me asking me if I was going to be drinking all day and said he was holding me to my pledge of cutting back. At first I got pissy and felt like I was having an intervention via text message, but then I realized he was right. I was planning on having cocktails later that night for the Golden Globes party, but there was no reason to drink during the day just because I could. I had worked on Sundays for so long that I thought every Sunday had to be an alcohol-feuled Sunday Funday and I am realizing that, um, no, they can just be a regular day off. I didn't even necessarily know if I would know anyone at LUSH! I had Sprite at The Bulldog and only ate eggs because Steve and I made plans for his lunch break (another thing you can do: make plans later in the day so you can't drink early in the day! Ohhhhh. That's how this works). Sten and I had a wonderful conversation about high school friends, mental illness treatment in Germany, and dating as a heterosexual in the Bay Area.
I stopped at LUSH and sat by Liam. "Are you behaving?" my friend Alec asked. "I'll buy you a Sprite." See, I had put the whole thing about the psych ward on Facebook and said I was going to cut back on drinking. I didn't say I was going to stop drinking, but I wasn't gonna get Level Four Drunk all the time. I was overwhelmed with the level of support and received several private messages from people who had been going through similar things. That 1 in 5 thing is real, y'all. But I ended up taking the post down. Saying you're gonna cut back on drinking while still drinking in public is like an obese person saying they're only going to have THREE pieces of cake today instead of five, and I was wrong to put myself on a pedestal and under a microscope that way. I'm perfectly fine to talk about depression -- which is what I have and that's it; for a while I thought I was bipolar or borderline because that is more sexy or dramatic, but nope, just plain old depressive disorder for me -- but the drinking thing is more nuanced (or maybe it's not, and that's what I'm scared of). "It's not other people's responsibility to figure out what kind of alcoholic you are," my brother told me.
I dropped Liam off at a friend's, accidentally ended up on the freeway when I really had to pee, bought ingrown hair cream from Steve because I am a disgusting beast, and we went to lunch and chatted with my old boss. "Are you dating anyone?" she asked. "Hellll no," I replied. "I liked someone who told me he was gonna need a few days, and that was 21 months ago."
I stopped at Lunds to buy impromptu snacks, and the boys came over for the Golden Globes! I love awards show season even though I hate this new trend where every "Oscar" movie comes out the last week of December, so I haven't seen or heard of anything. Usually by the time the SAG awards come around a few weeks later, I'm more familiar with stuff. Joey and I would later go see La La Land because we didn't want our gay cards to be revoked. Reid, Steve and I went to The Saloon and my friend Chris, who is an impossibly muscular bouncer at The Gay '90s, was in the shower contest. We left before the show (Steve was driving and we left on his time), but I found out he won. "Congratulations, shrimp," I told him the next day. "Thanks, tuna," he said. Muscular, straight, and witty? TAKE ALL MY MONEY PART TWO. His wife is a beautiful aesthetician. Of course.
Life has been slowly getting back to "normal". We went to the casino (I lost). I had a show at the Corner Bar and Dane and the boys came. Sometimes I think about how lucky I am and how silly it was to throw it all away. I hope I learn to appreciate it more.
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