Today is Leap Day, and I have made the decision to make an Instagram. And a Twitter. (I will never call it X, that’s like calling the Sears Tower the “Willis Tower” --but that’s not as big of a deal).
For those who have known me the past decade or so, you get why I have so much egg on my face. I have ranted and raged against social media, especially Instagram, so much, you’d think it killed my entire family. Me joining the social media sphere is like Kanye West going to a synagogue and being genuinely reverent and not at all making it about him.
Social media is two things: mental illness and cocaine. From ages 15-22 I was on Twitter anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour almost every day. It was like sleeping in a room painted with pure lead that hadn’t dried yet. There’s a real term called “irony poisoning,” and I got it. Among other things. From looking at the most rage-inducing woke lib-tard takes from people with real white-collar jobs to the brain-dead cruel shit from right-wingers, every day on “le hellsite” was (spiritually) a walk down Skid Row mixed with a Viet Cong jungle. Crazy people shouting the most fucked up shit and landmines everywhere, specifically designed by the algorithm to make you lose your mind.
I was already a mildly depressed teenager with a scarcity mindset. It’s not Twitter’s fault that’s who I was. But I’m certain le hellsite made me wayyy more of that. Because that’s what it does. It’s just a feedback loop made of all the things that make your cortisol spike.1
And Instagram. Don’t get me started. Just one anecdote. I was having breakfast at a restaurant in Santa Monica ($7 horchata lattes, $16 avocado toast with one egg 😛) and I overheard a conversation from the early 20’s ladies next to me (monochrome pastel shapewear suits and full makeup) talking about the Gram. One girl was asking the other how it was going not being on it. The other says “Oh, I’m back on it.”
“I thought you enjoyed being away from it.”
“Yeah, it was good. But the stress of being away from it got to be more than the stress from being on it. So, yeah…”
That’s cocaine. This is the justification of a junkie. I know, I’ve done this with many substances. “Well, I would quit, but it’s a slight inconvenience, would require a little bit of restraint and my body literally needs it and I can’t sit still without it… so, uh yeah, rack it up!”2
So, why am I doing this? Why am I joining the hellscape? Many reasons of course. But in order to really explain this, I must take you on a ride to the last time I broke one of my hard and fast rules. We are literally going to take a journey all the way inside and through me. Consider this the essay equivalent of the opening titles of Uncut Gems.
September 2020. Southern California. It’s the height of The Shitshow. Covid panic at full speed. Massive wildfires ripping through the entire West Coast. Air is unbreathable. Ash falling like snow. Everyone is inside. And it’s an election year lol, let’s go. And me, I’ve already been mostly inside since January. I’m down 30 lbs and have already been to the hospital. Covid, stomach parasite, penis getting repeatedly nailed by an IUD string,3 drug-resistant chlamydia, side effects of said drugs, I’ve been fucked for a minute already. I can barely eat or go to the bathroom, no one can go outside, and it hurts to sit for too long.4 It’s just fucking grim.
It is in these grim times, however, that the grandest ideas are born. My mom had said something to me about the “pelvic floor,” so I looked into it and found some videos of an Australian guy doing YouTube tutorials on how to relax the pelvic floor. “Alright now squuueeeezeee your pelvic floor, and then release and breathe,” in the most Steve Irwin accent you’ve ever heard. Fucking impossible. Can’t do it. I couldn’t even breathe right, whether that was the long covid, extreme despair, the perpetual weed smoking or the ashy 110 air quality, who fuckin knows, probably all of it.
I was getting no relief. So I went to this place where they help you relax your pelvic floor, manually. It’s called the Pelvic Health Rehabilitation Center in Westlake Village. It’s mostly geared towards people with actual problems (postpartum issues for instance), not “21-year-old who had too much chlamydia for too long,” but strange times will take you to some strange places.
Great fuckin place, everyone who works there is an absolute angel. All women, both practitioners, and receptionists. They were so considerate and understanding. They took me 100% seriously and didn’t laugh at me at all. In hindsight, that might not be the craziest thing in the world, but at the time I was really gearing up for them to giggle and tease, just like middle school🫤
Most of the session is just massaging: abdomen, inner thighs, groin, etc. It feels really good, I highly recommend it. But really, what you’re paying them to do is relax your pelvic floor from the inside. All the rubbing of the inner thigh, the pressing on your stomach, that’s all just warming you up for what’s really about to happen. And they talk to you the whole time leading up to it. They are not trying to be that intimate with you without getting to know you first. “How are you feeling? Let me know if I’m putting enough pressure. Do you have any plans for the weekend?” Things like that.5 You’ve made small talk with a healthcare professional.
But then comes the main event. This is the part where I break my rule. The rule is called “Nothing Goes Up My Ass.” I did not talk about this one as much as the social media one. I didn’t have to. I didn’t even think about it that often. It was just something that I figured would never happen. It was a given. But like I said before, desperate times have you going places you never would’ve imagined in a million years.
The therapist wears one set of gloves for the whole first part of the session. When it’s time for the big finish, she changes gloves, drenches them in some kind of clear goop while you adjust the little towel they give you to cover yourself, lift your legs slightly, and open wide.
I’ve been to two different therapists, and they deliver the final pieces of dialogue the exact same way, so I know it’s scripted: “You’re gonna feel cold gel, then pressure and”—- ahhhhhhh.
They’re in you. What the fuck? What was the third thing, you didn’t say? What’s after “pressure”? It’s kinda like how in skydiving they push you on two. It’s already too late to go back.
And holy fuck, what a sensation. The first time it happened my eyes almost popped out of my head. Just so you can get a visual: I’m lying down on the table with my head back, neck relaxed, knees up, feet flat on the table… and for most of it, it’s pretty chill. But after she entered me the first time, I fully sat up and made a noise that startled both of us. “Wowoaahhh 😯” Best way I can describe the noise I made is a cross between a dog growling and the yell someone does as they get hit with a powerful jump scare.
We locked eyes which was super weird because 1. She had her finger in my ass and 2. Because we’re both wearing masks. And eyes really do give a lot away.
It was very confusing because part of me was saying, “Yooo what the fuccckk” but another part of me was also very clearly having the reaction of liking it but feeling suuuppperrr conflicted about it.6 And that’s not okay.
The whole appointment, I had been the skittish/weird one, and the therapist was overly nice and chill to compensate. Beside manner 10/10. After we locked eyes, the energy shifted. I don’t remember exactly what she said– there was a lot going on– but what her eyes and her body language were telling me was: “Hey, buddy, this is medical shit. I’m not down to be a part of your realization. I’m your doctor. And this isn’t a movie. Get over yourself.”
I should also mention here that about five minutes prior to her entrance, she asked me if I had ever had anal sex or done anything with toys or any of that stuff and I gave a kind of reflexive straight guy response of like, “Pfff noooo.” (Translation: the fuck do I look like?) I forgot where I was. I forgot that I was a guest in this safe space. That these lovely, super compassionate women had welcomed me with open arms and treated me with nothing but respect.
She was basically like, “Is this gonna be a problem? If you aren’t comfortable with this I can’t go back in there.” I totally feel her, too. She doesn’t wanna be there any more than I do. So I got it, I completely changed my attitude, got my mind right, and let her go back in.
I always wondered what the third thing was. What was the last line before they enter you? What do they teach in the training? “Cold gel, then pressure…” It’s a great mystery.
I have a theory, or, at least in my case this is what I inferred: “You’re gonna feel cold gel, then pressure… annndd you’re gay! You are fucking gay and there is nothing you can do about it, there’s a finger in your ass and it kinda hurts but you kind of like it. That, my friend makes you gay. And you’re gonna be here again a week from now because you need this now. And that makes you double gay. You can tell yourself whatever you want. ‘Oh, uh I just need this to relax, I have a medical condition, this doesn’t count!’ Yes it does, you are driving from Pasadena to Thousand Oaks on a Tuesday morning so you can have your prostate fingered. Get a better haircut and start taking care of your skin because the community you just joined is cut-throat.”
I am so grateful I had this experience. First, because I feel so much better. After a couple of months, my symptoms decreased by at least half. After a year, I got my life back. I can live without neurotically managing my condition.
Second, and maybe more importantly, I got to practice letting go. And being wrong. Doing shit I never thought I would. There was one session towards the end of 2022 where I had the realization– midsession7— that I am terrible at letting go. It’s just not something I’d practiced pretty much ever. 95% of my negative emotions, experiences, and thoughts were completely stuck: quitting D1 baseball and dropping out of college, losing the CIF Championship in high school, every time a coach screamed at me/us, the montage of getting sent out of class, every instance of fucking shit up with a girl, having an ex break into my room (in my family’s home) while I slept and then being with that ex for another year after that, etc. etc. etc.
I held on to all of that for years. Never knew how, and/or simply didn’t want to let it go. I was under the impression that most of my energy ran on spite and anger. If I let anything go, how would I know/remember to never let that shit happen again? I was like Guy Pearce in Memento, except instead of tattoos it was just holding onto, and hyperfixating on, the most unpleasant events of my life, forever.
Being in this vulnerable position week in, week out for that year forced me to breeeattheee and let go. At first it was slightly humiliating, but I was also able to receive sympathy and compassion from a woman for the first time in my life! Holy fuck, I still can’t believe those women never laughed at me. I practiced sitting with these felt sensations and just letting them arrive and then leave. It was like a do-over on every single rough moment that I held onto. The batting cages for experiencing and releasing. Crazy healing experience. And it never woulda happened if I had not broken my arbitrary rule, “Nothing Goes Up My Ass.”8
This brings us back to the social media of it. I’ve been one of Instagram’s biggest critics for a decade. If this was the Daily Show there’d be a rapid-fire super cut of every time I’ve made a derogatory comment about the app and the people who use it. What can I say? I’m a massive hypocrite! I swore I’d never have a finger up my ass, and look at how that turned out.
So, fuck it. Let’s apply the Pelvic Health Rehab Principle here. The reason I agreed to let them do that in the first place is because it was the best option. I wanted to feel better, get some relief and heal myself more than I wanted to keep my rule intact. (BTW, I didn’t just go the minute I found it. It took a few weeks of extra hard suffering before I said “fuck it.”)
Now, I want to connect more than I want to not be on social media. I want to contribute, I want to talk my shit and have people hear it. I want the people who are in similar states of suffering to feel less alone. I want to make more money. I want to make more friends. I want to love and be loved. And maybe shedding one more piece of old identity brings me one step closer to all of that.
It also could be awful. I made my accounts the other day, and holy fuck, Twitter is a goddamn nightmare. I hadn’t even followed anyone yet, and my “For You” page was just all snuff footage of various sorts. “Woman gets ran over by car at full speed,” “Burglar gets shot by epic bodega owner on CCTV,” and then also, just, like, porn being advertised under a post about the atrocities in Gaza. This shit gotta be worse than crack.
But fuck it, I’ve always wanted an excuse to sell crack.9 I guess you could say I’m entering my “Griselda Blanco era.” 🧐
Here’s the bottom line: this shit is happening. There’s no stopping this train. My abstaining was just moralism, which I’m normally adamantly against. I decided to die on this hill because it felt right. Now, it doesn’t. If the soup is getting made, I want my seasoning in it.
Cheers, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s fire up the stove and get cookin. This dope not gonna sell itself.
For example, a baseball teammate in a black t-shirt, skinny jeans, a dental-floss thin gold chain, and a White Sox hat on a DTLA parking garage roof. Photoshoot caption: “City Nights.” This (and the image of him driving from the Inland Empire on a Friday night to get the fucking shot) was enough to send me into a spiral that could take days to recover from.
This is slang for “Divide the cocaine into neat lines, please,” for any fuckin nerds reading this.
It’s real and we must NORMALIZE this. Lol, my Pandemic Era GF (not the one who broke into my house) repeatedly told me it was “all in my head.” Turned out, I was right! String was hangin off and blowin around like a flag in the wind.
One of the symptoms of prostatitis, for anyone curious. It’s an ailment usually reserved for men 65 and up.
Once we got to know each other better it was way funnier. Having a deep conversation–spirituality, relationship issues, stocks– while the healthcare professional is deep inside of you is, in hindsight, deeply funny.
It’s a very layered sensation. It’s like a song with multiple beat changes, shifts in key, different instruments, etc. It’s a journey.
It’s worth doing one of these sessions for the realizations alone. It’s like sitting in the sauna or going on a hike.
I still go 3 times a year for maintenance.
Jay-Z, Jeezy, Future, it’s good company.
Thank you for sharing your story, that's super vulnerable to talk about on the internet. The kind of care you received sounds so nurturing and healing. Of course they didn't laugh! Your nervous system has to be safe and resourced to heal.
As you know, I'm a sex coach, and your share about "omg but what does this mean" is not uncommon for hetero men. You can like it and it doesn't have to mean anything. Full stop.
Thank you for that !! I appreciate it. That’s just my inner tyrant giving me the business. It’s all good 🌊🌊