“Hey Jill, you should totally go to this foreign country and work twelve hour days.  But hey also, we need you to stay on an eastern standard time schedule so would you mind working those twelve hours overnight?  You can totally sleep during the day.  You don’t require sunlight, right?  Good!  Thanks so much!  You’re a doll!”

Turns out they call it a graveyard shift because it makes you want to die and/or kill people.  I’ve been here for over a week and just saw the sun for the first time since leaving Japan.  Here’s photographic proof.

That’s me at the hotel.  Have I mentioned that this hotel is paradise?  That this hotel is the only thing keeping me sane?  Oh dearest hotel, I want to make sweet, sweet love to you with the lights on.  This is probably a good transition from semi-homicidal complaining about my lack of sleep to a brief list of the glorious things I’ve encountered in the Philippines.

1. The people are so unbelievably nice.  So nice.  And incredibly good looking.  It’s a country filled with people with great cheekbones, who smile all the time, and call me ma’am.  I have never had so many people smile at me in my whole life.  The kindness reaches through my perpetual haze of exhaustion and makes me want to hug the nice strangers on the street.  But I don’t.  Because I don’t want to frighten the nice Asians with my teary hugs.
2. I went to an open air market where I haggled for pearls.  I don’t think any elaboration is required.
3. The scenery and weather are a welcome change from New England.  There are palm trees and all sorts of other exotic plants everywhere.  Its hot and sticky and very tropical.  I generally hate the heat as my Irish ass does not handle it well, but since I’m only awake at night when the weather is just a hair cooler and the sun isn’t frying me I’m loving it.
4. I haven’t thrown up yet.  There have been some close calls, but so far no vomiting.  Always the hallmark of a successful trip.  I’m here for another week so there’s still a chance, but I’m feeling more confident that I’m not going to die involuntarily on this trip.

Yeah, so Ben and I are heading to a volcano soon.  Apparently there’s a lake around it.  And we’re going to ride tiny horses.  I’ll let you know how this works out.

I am obsessed with This American Life.  I want to make sweet, sweet love to Ira Glass while he tells me funny and thought provoking stories about things that seem one way but are actually another way, and after coitus I’ll look over at him and be all, “Life is so complicated.  And fascinating.  Here’s a one thousand dollar donation to public radio.”  Anywho, earlier this week I was listening to an old episode of This American Life and there was this story about funerals, and more specifically people who prior to death make video messages that will be played at their funerals.  Or something like that.  To be honest I was writing while listening to the story in the background so there’s a distinct possibility that I imagined at least a portion of that.  This story (or hallucination) totally inspired me and so I have decided to make a video message that will be played at my funeral after my inevitable travel related death.  There is just one minor problem, I have already packed my video camera.  You’re probably wondering why I packed my video camera if I plan on dying tomorrow, and the answer is simple and predictable, Ben made me pack.  Even after I explained that I’m definitely going to die on this trip.  Ira Glass would never do that.

Since I am cameraless at the moment I am going to instead write a farewell letter, full of wisdom and other stuff.  And here we go:

Dearest People Who Loved Me,

First off let me thank you for coming to my funeral.  You look pretty today.  Black suits you.

I want you to know that I am not in a better place.  Do not comfort yourself with lame platitudes like,

“Jill is with Jesus now.”

or

“Jill wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

or

“Jill would want you to move on.”

None of these things are true.  I have an entire blog dedicated to derisive Jesus jokes.  I am not with Jesus.  Jesus is totally punishing me right now.  Also, I want you to be sad and never move on.  I have no children, the only way I will live on is through your grief.  Everyday should begin with crying, fist shaking at the sky, and proclamations of never ending sadness.  And now that I am dead I am like Santa Claus, I see all, I know all.  I know when you are sleeping and awake, but more importantly I know if you are moving on, and so help me Jesus if you even try to move on I will totally haunt you.  Have you seen Paranormal Activity?  Because I will make that shit look like a goddamn fairy tale.  Any money you were planning on spending on therapy, you should instead spend on building a shrine.  My favorite color is a sunny yellow and I love puppies, so yellow puppies should be the a central theme to the shrine.  Also, you will see a merchandise table by the casket where you can purchase a variety of shrine-approved photos.

In closing, I love you all, but that will not stop me from ruining your life if you do not properly mourn.

Love,

Jill

Production Note: This letter should be read by someone with a rich baritone with Ginuwine’s My Pony playing softly in the background.

Also, I leave all of my earthly belongings to my new godson.  Yes, you read that correctly, my gorgeous friend Danielle and her very handsome husband Mike asked Ben and I to be godparents.  That happened.  In real life.   And, in all seriousness, we couldn’t be happier.

In conclusion, the end.

So, in lieu of actually talking about why I’m going to Manila, I’m going to talk about how horribly and embarrassingly frightened I am of the flight over there.  First some back story:

I hate flying.

Additional back story:

I come from a long line of flight phobics, by which I mean my father hates flying.  He’s been on a plane once and he tried to make them land halfway through the flight and he had to be sedated.  True story.  As a result of my father’s phobia we never took family vacations that involved flying.  I didn’t get on a plane for the first time until after college.  And it was horrible.  Not only for me but for the poor bastard that got stuck next to me on the plane.

Picture this, a 22 year old Jill gets on a plane in Logan headed to Chicago.  She is trying to look as normal as possible despite the fact that she is having a giant panic attack.  Coming down the center aisle is a rather attractive young man.  The following is running through my head (writing in the third person about myself is too hard):

Dearest Jesus, do not let this guy sit next to me.  There is a 99% chance I am going to throw up and I don’t want to do it in front of this guy.  Please Jesus.  I will sacrifice a million virgins to you.  And several goats.  And possibly some kittens.  Whatever you’re into.  Just don’t let this guy sit next to me.

And then that dude sat next to me.  And I cursed Jesus and vowed to spend my days making derisive Paint images of Him.

The guy sitting next to me was really nice.  Probably because he had no idea that I was about to lose my shit all over him.

So, the plane takes off and the meltdown begins.  It is epic.  It is me, head between my knees, crying, and praying very loudly.  My poor seat neighbor is horrified.  He looks over at me and asks, in a rather frightened tone, if I’m going to be okay.  I respond, no.  He asks if I want to hold his hand.  So, I do.  This is a bad idea.  You know how on cheesy sitcoms there is always this particular scene when a woman is giving birth?  The one where the woman is clenching her husband’s hand so tightly that she is about to break his fingers?  I did that.  In real life.  To a stranger.  And I wasn’t even pregnant.

Subsequent flights have not been much better.  And I’m pretty nervous/morbidly curious to see how the 20 hours in the air goes.  If I don’t die it will be a success.  I’m setting the bar pretty high.

Side Note: I generally do better when I fly with Ben.  Because Ben is an airline pilot.  Seriously.  I married an airline pilot.  The irony is not lost on me.  Or maybe it is.  I’m not entirely sure what irony means.

Monday morning, I take Coco out for a walk before I leave for the office.  The stairs are icy and I slip and fall.  On my brick stairs.  It is very graceful and looks something like this:

Upon reaching the bottom of my stairs I realize something is very wrong.  The first indication is my inability to get up.  Second red flag is the uncontrolled crying.  Unfortunately Ben is on a trip, so I am alone.  Well, not alone, Coco is there.  But my misfortune continues since Coco doesn’t know how to drive or call a hospital.

After what seems like hours of being curled up in the fetal position on the ice, crying, I am finally able to get up.  I’m all, “Jill, walk it off.  You’re fine.”  And I take my own advice, finish walking Coco, continue crying, bring her back inside, more crying, and leave for work, while crying.

Note: In retrospect, its now clear to me that I was seriously injured.  At the time, I think the pain had made me irrational.

Now, I am driving to work.  And the pain is unbearable.  In 20 degree weather, I am driving with all of my windows down because I am feeling like I am about to pass out and/or throw up.  At this point, I have decided that I need to get to the hospital.  I am on a mission.  A simple, yet important mission.  Remain conscious long enough to get to the hospital.  Well, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED BITCHES!

I walk into the ER, or rather hobble into the ER.  Lots of crying.  And swearing.  At Jesus.  The homeless gentleman in the waiting room is looking at me nervously, clearly afraid of what the crazy lady is about to do next.  Needless to say, I am promptly brought to an exam room, if for no other reason than to put the other patients in the waiting room more at ease.  Crying, crying, crying.  X-rays.  Broken sacrum diagnosis.

Here’s the thing, you may not know this, but I’m pretty hardcore.  A couple of years ago, I broke my ankle and walked on it for a week before finally going to the hospital.  My doctor at the time told me that there was no way it was broken because I had been walking on it.  In heels.  Four inch heels.  Quick x-ray later, totally broken.

Being a total hardcore badass, I not only turned down the shot of morphine offered at the hospital, I also refused a prescription for narcotic pain killers.  Mostly because they make me feel nauseous and I hate throwing up.  Like I will gladly take the pain of a broken sacrum over the soul-killing experience that is vomiting.  So, for the last week, I’ve been popping a combo of Tylenol and Motrin.  All while trying to avoid dying.

While at mass this weekend, please remember to tell Jesus about how happy it would make you if my back was better.  And now a photo essay explaining how I currently feel.

Secondly, I did not quit blogging.

Thirdly, your emails?  They touched me.  Inappropriately.  They made me take my top off and they touched me.  It was very uplifting.

On to your questions:

Jill Pilgrim, why did you stop posting?

Short prison sentence.  Which may or may not be related to the male prostitute ring that I was running.  And those prostitutes may or may not have dressed as bananas, koala bears, and hamburgers.

Did Ben finally escape from the basement and exact his revenge?

No, Ben is still safely chained to the radiator.

But, no, seriously, what happened?

Two words.  Legal action.  One more word.  Landlord.  Three last words.  Nervous fucking breakdown.

You may remember that I moved recently.  You may also remember that shortly after moving Ben and I discovered that our place was infested with bats.  And mice.  And red squirrels.  Oh, and there’s arsenic in the water.  Three times the legal limit.

So um, yeah.  Not good.  Not good at all.  Its been a crazy few weeks.  Weeks filled with me making public scenes <- Seriously.  There was the time that I accosted my landlord, chasing her into another tenant’s apartment.  She was trying to escape me.  Because I was screaming at her about the water.  And, um, I had a video camera.  <- That shit totally happened.

And there was the time that we had a tenant meeting.  And I brought a tape recorder and yelled a lot.  And then my tape recorder was taken away by my landlord’s husband.  Who is also her lawyer.  He put my tape recorder in the freezer.  <- No, really.  That shit totally happened.  In real life.  He couldn’t figure out how to turn my tape recorder off, and he didn’t trust me to turn it off, so he put it in the freezer.

So many water tests, health inspectors, exterminators, lawyers, and tears later, its finally over.  Our landlord officially, in writing, released us from our lease yesterday.  And it was GLORIOUS.

So, um, I’m back.  Hopefully I have not been kicked out of your reader.  In order to win back your trust and to show you that I’m serious about making this work, I’m going suggest we go to couple’s counseling.  At my church.  Where Jesus lives.

Here’s the deal, I am a crazy person.  Being crazy is often rather amusing (or scary, depending on your perspective).  But there are times when being crazy is just fucking exhausting.  This has been one of those exhausting times.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am a clinically intense person on a good day.  My body’s response to relaxation probably looks an awful lot like your body’s response to being chased and subsequently eaten by a large bear.  I feel a constant buzzing, my muscles are always tense, I fidget, my thoughts race.  That’s just how I feel all the time.  Even with meds and therapy.  I’ve come to accept this.  Embrace it even.  See, there are some totally awesome benefits to being really intense.  Like, my house is always clean!  And I never run out of hand sanitizer!  And while you’re sleeping, I’m using that valuable time to come up with disaster recovery plans so that I’ll be prepared in case of an earthquake in New Hampshire!

Now that we’ve covered the upsides of my particular brand of mental illness, let me clue you in to some of the less desirable side effects of insanity.  There are times when its like my body literally can’t handle being so keyed up anymore.  And my body?  It has no fucking idea how to RELAX.  Relax is not a word my body understands.  Whereas a normal person might say, “Hey Body, I am totally exhausted from all this stress we’ve been under.  How about we spend a weekend lounging on the couch and doing nothing?  That will totally help us recoup.”  And then the normal person’s body would be all, “Dude, sure!  That’s exactly what we need!”  My body is more like this:

Jill: Body, we totally need to relax.  Lets watch some tv and just take it easy.

Body: DOES NOT COMPUTE

Jill: I’m just saying, lets take a long hot bath and relax.

Body: ERROR!  ERROR!  DOES NOT COMPUTE!

Jill: BITCH, FUCKING RELAX!

Body: Commencing flu sequence.  In 3, 2, 1.  Virus initiated.

And then I get sick.  Because that is the only way to get my body to slow down.  You know the expression “worried sick?”  Dude, I’m living it.  And its fucking annoying.  The whole mind/body connection thing?  Kicking my ass.

When I start to feel like this, the come down, I tend to become very withdrawn.  To be honest, I’m a pretty internal person in general.  While I am not shy and I think most people would probably describe me as outgoing, I have always I liked to spend a lot of time by myself.  Its how I recharge.  I enjoy my own company, which is a good thing since Ben’s job has him travelling 4 days a week.  What I’m getting at here is that it is not totally strange for me to not pick up any of my phone calls for a couple of days, but the way I’ve been feeling lately?  I know its not healthy.  And its a slippery slope.

If you’re been following me for a while, you’ve probably heard me describe myself as a mental health nut.  The same way someone obsessed with their physique would notice a weight gain of a few ounces, I notice even a slight change in my emotional barometer.  I have to because I know what happens when I don’t stay on top of it, and I can’t go through something like that again.  So when I notice that I’m a little depressed, or more anxious than usual I try to be proactive.  I try to talk about it, I make sure that I continue to eat and sleep regularly, I get outside, get some fresh air, get some exercise, listen to Brahms, write EXCITING CONTENT for my Internet friends.

My point is, I am okay for me.  I’m on a bit of an emotional downswing at the moment, but I recognize it and I’m addressing it.  I will be back to 100% soon, and until then here is a picture of Jesus to tide you over:

See, I have this incredibly annoying medical condition.  When I am under extreme stress, I get physically sick.  Its a very rare condition called jillisfuckingcrazy-itis.  I’m currently accepting donations to aid in finding a cure.

Anywho, I promise EXCITING CONTENT* will be here in just a few short days!  EXCITING!  CONTENT!

*exciting content is defined by the webmaster as paint pictures of Jesus.

Honestly, my brain is barely functioning at the moment from all the STRESS and the fact that I haven’t lit this place on fire is a testament to the fact that Zoloft totally works.  I’ll post more details soon (along with the winner of my blow job giveaway), but until then here is an artistic representation of what’s going on inside my head right now.

Also, don’t forget to comment in order to be entered into the drawing for my mystery giveaway.  Its totally better than if Andy Dick were a hooker, but not as good as if Angelina Jolie was.  A hooker.  Because she’d probably be like the most successful hooker ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recently, Jill Pilgrim bravely told her story of her struggles with mental illness and her climb to wellness.  She also, very courageously, did so without joking, giving it the seriousness and respect it deserves.  I’m going to copy her (because I want to be Jill Pilgrim when I grow up) and tell my own story.  I, however, will be taking the low road*.

I have had many many many years to reflect upon how my craziness came to be.  I’d have to say that my anxiety surrounding my health started at about five.  At five years old, I developed an allergy to soap.  Yes, soap.  The stuff that takes the stink off of most kindergarteners caused me hives all over my body, and hives so bad on my hands and feet that they would just swell like clown feet and baseball mitts.  I complained to my parents, but they didn’t take me seriously until I was literally crawling around on my knees and elbows (not sure why I needed to elbows; I’m sure just the knees would’ve sufficed).  So this taught me health anxiety lesson number one: “be dramatic.”

Fast forward to eight years old in Sunday school.  The teacher was teaching us about leper colonies.  Now mind you, she left out a LOT of information.  For example, antibiotics have come into being since biblical times, so leprosy no longer equals a death sentence.  She also left out that a disease that “eats your skin” is characterized by nasty, itchy sores.  (This will be important in a minute.)  The sum total of my knowledge about leprosy was this:  Get leprosy, a disease that eats your skin, and you get sent to a colony where everybody dies.

So later that day, I get in the tub for my bath.  I get out, and my fingers are pruned and wrinkly. And…peeling!  OHMYGODIHAVELEPROSY!!!!  So I did what a normal child would do – cry to mama?  Nah.  That would make sense.  I laid on my bed and sobbed, convinced I was going to die.  This brought me health anxiety lesson number two: if you don’t have enough information, fill in the blanks using your imagination.  The worse, the better.

Then fifth grade.  Scarlet fever resulted in a fainting spell in the hallway at school.  So.  Embarrassing.  BUT, my parents fussed over me, friends fussed over me, and when I didn’t finish my homework during my absence? my teacher fussed over the fact that I was all better, so it was ok that I didn’t do it.  Health anxiety lesson number three: sickness = attention.

Add to that one parent with severe health anxiety and another with generalized anxiety disorder and occasional panic attacks, and you get me: One fucked up piece of equipment.

Effexor is my hero.

*disclaimer: humor is my coping mechanism, although in hindsight, this post isn’t particularly funny.  I take mental health very seriously and am an advocate of mental illness awareness and education.

1.  Extend the day by 8 hours, or

2.  Redesign humans so that we no longer require sleep

Also?  While we’re fixing things?  Maybe you could like cure some diseases or something too.  I’m flexible on that though.  I’m really more concerned with the longer day thing.  Oh!  Alternate solution!  You know all those hours I spent at mass, maybe you could give those back?  Not that I don’t love mass, and cherish all those awesome times we had together.  Just a suggestion…

So, in closing, please fix my problem as I am the center of the universe and the hungry orphans can suck it.

Your Sister In You,

Jill Pilgrim

P.S. Please don’t send me hate mail about how offensive it is to make fun of hungry orphans.  For the record, I am totally pro-orphan.

P.P.S.  If you have any suggestions for Jesus, feel free to leave them here.  He totally reads my blog regularly.  And lives in Mexico.  Evidence can be found below.