The Vibrator Chronicles

I feel funny, dear reader.

Not like, ill or stoned or whatever. I just mean that at this moment, I have the brain juice to not be a total drag. Which is great. 

Now, what do I do with this? Well, seeing as I have very few friends and an endless amount of self-importance, I’m gonna tell you a story. About me. 

And you’re going to laugh. 

I was in treatment for a long ass time, dear reader. It took years for my body to heal from the horror that was my brain ages 8-22. A lot of it was horrible–like–really really bad. Doing jumping jacks in corners and crunches at 3 am bad. 

NOT TO MENTION that when you’re considered “inpatient” (meaning you’re still pretty damn frail) you get checked on every 15 minutes. Even when you’re sleeping–or pretending to. 

Let me unpack this for you. Every 15 minutes, someone comes with a flashlight into your room to make sure you’re still kicking–metaphorically speaking of course, as kicking would be considered “excessive movement.” 

You wanna get yourself off in treatment? Oh it takes careful planning. If you have a roommate, it really gets dicey, cause come on have some respect. 

When you’re considered stable enough to no longer be peeped every quarter of an hour, you move to half hours. Then, you can really get busy. Still, though, you gotta be diligent. 

This, dear reader, is the blessing of PHP (partial hospitalization). You go to treatment during the day, and spend the nights in a halfway house type deal. You still usually have a roommate, but they tend to do more stuff than before so odds are you’ll get the room to yourself for at least an hour in the evenings. Lovely, right?

In 2019, I spent my birthday in PHP. It sucked to not be home, but dear god was it better than full HP if you know what I mean. 

My lovely friend sent me a birthday present, all the way from NY, and this meant a great deal to me. She had only good intentions with this gift, I promise you. But, she didn’t know I was only going to treatment during the day, so she sent my gift to the clinic and not to the halfway house. Which in theory, is fine. 

But was it fine my dear, sweet reader? No. No it was not.

My therapist, a really tough East Coaster 20 years my senior, and her very serious face found me in the clinic’s “lounge area”. She told me I had received a package, and that I needed to be supervised while I opened it. And this makes sense, of course. It could be contraband laxatives or whatever. But I knew my lovely friend had sent me something, so I wasn’t concerned. 

So I follow her down the hall and she hands me the box. Amazon. Neatly taped. I sliced it open with the reckless abandon of an anorexic girl who was well fed for the first time in years. 

There was a note on the top–one of those notes you can choose to include in an Amazon order if it’s a gift. I knew it was from my friend so, without thinking, I read the note aloud. To my therapist.

 

“Allison,

 

Now that you’re older, it’s time to start your collection. Sending you good “vibes” on your birthday.”

 

My voice caught on “vibes”. I looked at the note for way too long, not moving. I couldn’t look at my therapist. I could NOT look at my therapist. 

“I don’t understand” She said, “what is it?”

I reached into the box and pulled out a little black case. The name was right there on the lid. In big red letters. 

 

“Oh.”

 

I lost it. I was coughing so dramatically to hide the laughing, that I actually choked myself and had to catch my breath.

 

Some time between the “Oh” and the suffocation, she said, and I kid you not, “have fun.”

And then she walked out of the room. And I was pronounced dead at the scene.

 

Dear reader, if ever you feel embarrassed, remember that I unpacked a vibrator in front of my very serious therapist. And that she told me to, “have fun.”

 

I love you just so much.

Have fun.