I get easily distracted and make things feel more significant than they factually are. I got so distracted that I put writing to the side for the last four hours.
You give it an inch, it'll take a mile. My mind clings to any and all shreds of doubt and holds me morally responsible; it's psychological torture. I held my right hand in my left hand and stared hard at it, knowing that despite having a benign mind of its own, there was seemingly an equal possibility that I could be dying of an illness. Doesn't matter which one; whatever Google tells me when I type in "what can cause tremors". The subsequent spiral of checking, reassuring, and going, "I am okay", has been orchestrating everything in my life as of late. I am a marionette with pink little circles for cheeks, and OCD is just pulling away at my strings, making me do silly little things and basking in the schadenfreude.
AKA; I'm it's little bitch. Or, I had been, and now I'm a slightly more reformed little bitch.
I tell people to imagine my mind like a glass full of something like golf balls, slowly filling with incrementally smaller items: marbles, sand, water. There is not an ounce of space up there that isn't being used. A song I'm hyperfixating on, my never-will-happen daydreams, sex, the things I need to do and keep putting off, work, and deeply unsettling thoughts. It makes sense that I'm inattentive: I'm thinking of too much shit. If it's not insanely important and doesn't come with immediate consequences, I'm not compelled to care right away. I'm busy being in constant distress and distraction.
Lately, I've been eyeing the Squire in the corner of my room with a longing feeling. I bought it when I moved to Los Angeles a little over two years ago, and have not played it once. I never could understand why, even I wanted to with every ounce of myself, I could not bring myself to begin things, much less follow through. Even worse, people have noticed: my mom keeps asking why I haven't taken French lessons, guitar lessons, singing lessons, and why I haven't taken a history course, or begun my dream of attaining a Master's degree. I can now point a finger at the ADHD. I'd hate to become one of those people that's incessantly complaining that x, y, and z are all because of it; It's been so long that I'm disappointed (and sure) it's just part of my personality now.
Cody (my psychiatrist) explained how OCD and ADHD were on opposite sides of the spectrum, but still had overlap. See: sleep issues, executive dysfunction, addictive tendencies, and intense emotions. Finally, I could make some sense of why, despite being afraid of my own shadow, I'd still always impulsively and carelessly put myself in not-so-great scenarios. I've always said I felt like a walking conundrum. That's not what this entry is about, though. This entry is about the pursuit of dopamine.
My mom said that when I was a kid, I'd rock back and forth while watching TV, and in her words, "it's as if you were just absorbing all of it." Well, now we know that was fucking stimming. Throughout childhood and up until January of this year, I'd suffered from such severe depression, I'm sure it became a part of me as well. Cody says depression and anxiety often mask ADHD; the anxiety made me do the things I didn't want to, and the depression made me uninterested in nearly everything.
Very few times can I remember dopamine seeking prior to my early 20s. The riskiest thing I'd done was send lewd photos of myself and impulsively 'hookup' with a then-friend; the regret was not worth the thrill, and the coercion was not worth the subsequent volatile relationship with sex and sexuality. Big secret here: I was the girl in high school who had her nudes leaked. There's always some story about it, but in my case, it wasn't entirely unheard of; it was widely known that the boys in school had group chats that had accumulated years and years worth of girls' nudes. As a result of (rightfully) being a bitch about it, I had my house and car egged–that wouldn't happen nowadays, seeing that a dozen eggs will run you at least $6.
Combined with low self-esteem, I felt myself hating the concept of casual sex. I read my journal a few nights ago, and giggled when I saw how many times I questioned if I was a lesbian. You poor child. In 2019, I attempted to download Hinge and Bumble and move on from my high school ex, and couldn't bring myself to do it. My dopamine was found in Kratom and writing in coffee shops. Exploring Chicago on my own and discovering my independence. Dopamine was also found in the surplus of hydrocodone my brother had after having his wisdom teeth extracted. Opiates prescribed for pain relief also activate the reward system in your brain. I laid in bed one night after taking a pill and a half, and stared at the ceiling, melting into my comforter.
Euphoria. Pure bliss. Unable (and unwanting) to move my limbs, I retreated into my muffled mind. Everything felt good, and more importantly, everything was okay. In 2020, I was too preoccupied fighting anorexia and bulimia to even consider a reward system. Or, maybe I got off on the sadistic satisfaction of losing another half a pound. With every step I took forward, there was something right behind me, sinking its claws into me and making a home there. Not parasitic; I was being haunted.
My first job after graduating was a temp gig, managing social media for a medical company. I met someone, and like every other young woman, I experienced my first lovebomber. The very next day after hooking up, he was uninterested in me. The reaction I had was to quickly spiral into alcoholism, a dramatic, detrimental side effect of what I now know is emotional dysregulation. Drinking felt good...and while drunk, everything was okay. Back then, Juul was still popular, and I remember the first time I got that sweet, mind-bending buzz. I thought, "You're saying I can just carry this little thing around and feel okay for a few minutes or seconds? Oh fuck yeah." All control over vaping went out the window.
My working hours were from 2-10 PM, so on any given weeknight, most of the house would be quiet, sans my little brother playing video games downstairs. I'd come in with my work backpack full of liquor, go into my room, lock the door, and go at it. I started smoking flower too, much to the chagrin of my brother, who had to endure that skunk smell every time I snuck out the downstairs door that led to the backyard. Those days, I'd sit on the cool concrete and stare at the stars, wondering when it would get better. I regret all of it, but most of all, I regret how it was ruining my relationship with my mom. There were times I'd fall, hit my head, or simply collapse over my bed, stick my neck out, and vomit on the floor.
I never knew she would unlock the door and check on me to make sure I hadn't choked to death. One day, I thought, "It doesn't have to be like this forever," and quit all the aforementioned–cold turkey. That's how it is with me: black and white thinking, all or nothing, rationality out of the window; at least in this case, it ended my suffering for a bit. With my friends still in college, I didn't see them much, and my best friend left for New York City that June. I was lonely, and in late 2021, I met my then-boyfriend. Uninterested and unattracted, I forced myself into a relationship. Anything to cling to, anything to claw at to keep me from leaving home, which I knew was inevitable. It was also then that I developed tinnitus, which, in retrospect, was the event that offset my OCD.
I thought if I wore my green Converse, it would go away. If I knocked on wood, I might hear silence again. It was a rough 6-ish months before I began to habituate. It was during that time that my grandpa died, too. Instead of my traditional method of getting shitfaced, I willingly slipped into depression. I had this pink heart IKEA lamp in my room, and I'd turn off every other light and just lie in bed, staring at it until it lost its shape and turned into a fuzzy pink orb. I'd go rock climbing with my then-boyfriend and feel empty inside. He would do this thing where anytime we had any sort of conflict, he'd practically cross his arms, pout, and give me the cold shoulder. I hated him. I hate when people do that.
Obviously, I broke up with him and moved, and the subsequent months were reckless, fun, and concerning. Living alone in a 1920s apartment meant I could do anything, be as loud as I wanted, and have over whoever I wanted. Everything was on the table: sex, alcohol, weed, nicotine, and a one-and-done line. One night, I realized how I knew nobody in LA, and nobody knew me. I could dip my toes into casual sex, and maybe it wouldn't feel as bad; I felt robbed of exploring my pleasure before, so I dove right in.
There's something important for me to distinguish: I think women can have a high libido and not be hypersexual. There's an inherent bias there that simply doesn't exist with men, and I believe it should be acknowledged more. I went on a flurry of dates, half good, half bad. There were so many embarrassing moments that I spun into darkly comedic stories. Some of them are on my blog, but that's also not what this entry is about. It's about the feeling. That dopamine chase, the brief satisfaction, and the undeniable urge for more. Between all of these moments, dating back to high school, I still spent a fair amount of time being so happy that it became easy to ignore the impulsive behavior.
More often than not, I'd end up tangled up in someone else's sheets, tinkering with whether or not the night scratched the itch. A lot of the time, it was more of the story before every encounter that would do so. Eating Monty's in Echo Park, splitting a gold, ending up at a house party, bar hopping in Hollywood, and eating tacos on the trunk, talking about zodiac signs. I hyperfixated on the number of people. Upped it, more and more, consuming empty intimacy and going home, wondering if this was what adulthood was supposed to be. Or if I was living in a horny, hot echo chamber by the name of LA.
In low-lit cozy bars, I'd order an $18 whatever and flirt my ass off until round two, and sometimes three. I gave up vaping, but if they happened to have one, who was I to turn it down? Sometimes I'd ghost them, and sometimes they would ghost me. When you mistake intimacy with self-worth, it becomes this awful, never-ending cycle of trying your best to impress, only to realize you can't bend yourself into something universally palatable. It took a while to come to that conclusion, and once I did, I spent months alone and abstinent. I couldn't derive pleasure from sex if it were only to attain dopamine.
For a long time, I viewed sex and sexuality as something to be afraid of, having been previously stripped of my privacy as a teen, unsatisfied with my then-partners, and longing for something even a little bit deeper. Yet, unwilling to commit. That tug-of-war, wanting to explore, and wanting to be tethered. I started to date again, this time with more intention. The people were better, the sex was too. It finally felt like my pleasure belonged to me again. I could let go of the past, or at least distance myself from it, and experience something good. On the flip side, all of this came with more vulnerability, something I was stingy with before.
Thinking about my first kiss (a girl, an accident, in first grade), I realized I hadn't explored my sexuality. Plenty of times, I was convinced I was lesbian, because as much as I liked men physically, I found them mentally boring. Meeting girls is hard. I switched the settings on my new dating app to men and women. It's a humbling experience to see the women on there, because they're all 10s and uninterested in me. Why would they be? Me, this nobody; short, with a soft stomach and hair that gets greasy in a day. Ultimately, and likely corresponding, my next few partners were male.
Something happened that I didn't quite expect: the pattern changed. That dopamine, that rush of good, came from the plausibility of a healthy, fun relationship. I met someone nearly 10 years my senior, so eccentric and new, and I was hooked. All rationality went out the window, and every interaction became something to ruminate over later. One night, I came back to my studio after, and sat at the toilet, with my underwear tangled at my feet. I studied them, and sank into the emptiness. Earlier, we sat nearly naked in bed, eating mango popsicles. I was attentive to the mood lighting and the music in the background. Why does everything matter so much more to me?
I felt alone at the mixer we went to. There were round string lights along the fence that bordered the outdoor patio, and I was a little high. Everyone there was much older, nearly double my age, and a hell of a lot more confident. At some point, I met this ballerina and thought hard about kissing her. He flirted with her in front of me, and I felt invisible. I could imagine myself, back against the fence, watching everyone with less significance than a fly on the wall. Still, I kissed him later, partly out of a desperate attempt to feel what I did before, and partly because I was horny. And sad. And wanted dopamine.
Subsequently, I met a drummer (I'd always wanted to fuck one) and the pattern continued. I loved that he was French and a horror and rock fan. It was the fact that he had a cat, focused on my pleasure, and most of all, that he was sweet to me. We were never going to date, but I hyperfixated on the night I spent in his bed, illuminated by the red light on the c-stand in the corner. It was summer/fall then, and his apartment was hot. He fanned me with a bounce board, and I took note of the precariously placed ARRI camera in his closet. He started to play trivia with me, asking about little film things. I always make things a lot more special than they really are.
It took me 25 years to narrow down my dating pool to women only, and I'm glad I did. The same way I felt robbed of my pleasure before, I felt my sexuality in and of itself was muffled, stuffed deep down. But being bisexual feels right. For someone who hates labels, I love that one. I met better people and a better person. That desire for pleasure never disappeared, only now, I started to feel guilty about it. How could I be dating a woman, and sometimes still think of men? It felt like a moral failure. It still does. But it's who I am, and you can't choose your sexuality. You can't control your desires, but you can control how you react to them.
If it makes me a bad person, I accept it. If it makes me a shitty partner, I accept it. There are too many things I have minimized, stifled, and stomped over; I can't give this one up. The thing I spent so long reclaiming. That, and relationship OCD is a thing, and I refuse to let it attack my bisexuality. If it was truly taboo, disgusting, annoying, whatever...I would accept it. Every other aspect of myself is screaming to be perfect, but that one will not and cannot budge, regardless of any factor.
So I ruminate, and I have dreams about being with both; a clear indicator I am right. And, because I am finally trying to be okay, I try to derive my pleasure from my identity, and not solely the partner I'm with, or the sex I'm having. It's the liberation that feels like such a deep, hard-earned, and personal achievement.
The chase for dopamine has to change. It can't be sourced from things or people that make me feel empty after. It has to be entirely mine, and entirely at my will. So, I hope, ache really, that I'll finally restring and play that damn guitar.
Sincerely,
Elena
Elena
photo: Danae, 1907 by Gustav Klimt