1-800-BYE-FELICIA

In the middle of this bullshit pandemic, I got divorced. It was contentious and expensive. I was awake in the middle of the night simmering with rage. I grumbled in anger while walking the dog. I was distracted with indignation in the middle of my workday, stalled at my desk.

To manage this, I did two things: I recommitted myself to swimming laps (an approved Covid safe activity) and I got my ass back into therapy.

I can’t meditate, but swimming helps because I focus only on counting and breathing; my mind is mostly quiet during this time. It’s good for the rage yayas.

I am a reluctant adopter of therapy; I still approach it with a very heavy helping of skepticism. That said, it was instrumental to healing my depression. I appreciate now that therapists can provide excellent outside perspective and they have access to practical tools that can be very helpful.

In my second or third session, post-divorce, my therapist said, “It’s important you focus on self-care right now.”

“Can you tell me,” I said, trying not to yell, “what exactly is available to me in the middle of this stupid pandemic? I am not going to get a pedicure, take a quick trip away, invite friends out on a whim for a good ice cream and bitching session. I am not buying myself a nice new sweater to wear exactly nowhere, booking a weekend at the beach, or, I don’t know, I just don’t know. Plus, my divorce cost me tens of thousands of dollars, and a lot more goes into the settlement. Every single thing that passes as self-care these days is actually just… capitalism.”

My therapist paused for a long moment before agreeing and re-grounding herself in our pandemic era. I was mildly annoyed with her disassociation, but I accept we are new to each other. I understand this is a process. She is thoughtful and has guided me well in other areas. I see it as my job to consider what she’s offering and to take what I can from it.

Because I’m new to her, she doesn’t know I’m a fucking ninja master of self-care. I pay my own way. I feed myself a decent diet. I adopted my dog to help stave off depression. It wasn’t so much about caring for him, it was about installing a safety net against the crippling loneliness I was feeling. I do the laundry and change the sheets and wash the dishes. I shower and take myself to the dentist and the doctor. I put myself in the water to swim three days a week and I schedule myself for therapy once, twice a month, to tune up the hive of bees that is my brain. I do all of it.

I don’t need self-care. I need someone else to care. I need care that doesn’t involve me writing a check or making a phone call or taking care of things because no one else is. I do not need a scented candle or a CBD massage or an herbal supplement that claims, with no scientific basis, to balance my stress levels. I do not need a Himalayan pink salt lamp, no matter how attractive the light. I need 150,000 tax free dollars and satisfaction. I need wrapping things up to not be my job. And I need to be heard.

For many years I have had this idea for a drag-queen-on-demand service. You been done wrong? Call 1-800-BYE-FELICIA and tell girlfriend your pain. She will listen and percolate and act.

Say you’re the offending party. You have cheated or lied or … whatever. You’re minding your own business one Saturday afternoon when your doorbell rings. On your front porch is 300 pounds of unstoppable drag queen. Six and a half feet, maybe more, before the heels and the wig.

She’s there with a message.

“Listen up,” she says, while glaring down at you. She reads you your sins. Any time you try to “Yeah but…” she raises a large, bejeweled hand. “Stop talking. You had your chance,” she says, “You are listening now.” When she gets to the end of her speech, she looks deep into your heart. You shiver, knowing she sees with great clarity that which you’ve been covering for who knows how long. While you’re standing there trying not to cry, she breaks a water balloon full of glitter on you. “Think about it,” she says, and does a 180 on a shapely yet sturdy heel. You are left picking glitter out of your eyelashes and wondering what the hell happened.

I am committed to my exercise routine and will continue to put my brain in someone else’s hands once, twice a month, as my schedule allows. I bought myself flowers this week and I walk the dog every day. No one but no one needs to remind me to take care of myself.

What I want is an Old Testament style reckoning, the things I need to say delivered via royalty in a pair of size 13 black patent leather over the knee lace up boots and wig of vertigo inducing altitude.

Self-care? Fuck that.

Give me a queen. A brick house with a fistful of glitter and the truth.

Bye, Felicia.