Is All This Fan Fare for Me?

is all this fan fare for me?

I only slightly remember this particular night.

I was in a Xanaxed induced deep sleep. I had been grumpy. The cause? My brother. I was also very tired. The cause? My brother.

I had spent the previous day hosting a huge party at a park for my brother, his new wife and her daughter. They were in town visiting.

It had been hot out that day. Super, super hot and humid. We stayed through a torrential rainstorm to watch the fireworks. That alone would have done me in.

But it was my brother’s lack of appreciation for anything I ever did for him that really wore me out.

I had no expectations of him, other than he would somehow manage to go out of his way to insult me and be a dick to me.

It still wore me out. Even though I knew it would happen.

I shook it off anyways and still tried so hard to make him like me. I don’t know why either. He is not nice, he is not interesting, there is nothing special about him. If I just met him somewhere else, I would look over him. He wouldn’t be someone I would want to be friends with.

I agreed to go to the marina the next day, even though I would have preferred the solitude of my home for a whole day.

It was my marina anyways. I was footing the bill now, honoring the family tradition of summers on the lake.

We jetted out for lunch. This is what I remember:

“Hey, I invited a couple of your friends and their families out yesterday, but they were out-of-town.”

He laughs, an asshole’s laugh. “I wouldn’t want to see them,” he utters condescendingly.

I stare with wide eyes. I couldn’t believe that was his response.

I also remember that I was still eating and had more than half my drink left when he paid the bill and everyone got up from the table to leave. I looked up. What the fuck?

Our parents trailed after him cooing about how wonderful he was, pretty much walking on their knees, honoring him for being such a prick.

Let’s remember my parents had a rent-free place to live because of me. A place they took over 100%, edging me out of my own home. They paid $0 in utilities, utilities that were now 4x what they were when I lived alone. The boat still had a home because I paid the bills. My brother contributed nothing to the fall of our parents, I did everything. He was treated as Royalty, me as the Help.

That did it. I had absolutely had enough!

As soon as we got back to the marina, I got in my car and left without a goodbye.

Furious, very, very hurt, and a little bit dramatic, I posted something on Facebook about being done (meaning trying with said brother).

I deleted it a few hours later.

Peacefully resting in my bed, recovering from not enough sleep and way too much effort, I rolled over to my right side.

I was blinded through closed eyes with a light that kept flashing in my eyes.

I started to wake up. I could see flashing red lights outside.

As I got up to look, I could hear them relaying boat registration numbers.

I took a deep breath. Had something happened at the boat? Was everyone okay?

I looked out my window. The whole, entire street was lined with all the Township’s finest: three fire trucks, an ambulance, several Sheriff’s vehicles and many nosy neighbors.

The lead Sheriff called my name.


“Could you come down here please?”

“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked as I opened the front door.

Apparently they were here for me.

“Excuse me? You are here for me? All this fan fare is for me?” I asked, very confused.

Apparently my dramatic Facebook post had caused my former best friend (who deserted me when I retreated after losing Jack) to try many times to contact me.

Later I saw the numerous missed phone calls and texts from her.

When she couldn’t get a hold of me, she contacted the Police.

I have never, ever been more horrified and embarrassed in my life.

I was questioned on my Facebook post, what I had taken that night, what pills I had in the house, why I didn’t answer the phone, why I didn’t hear the door…

I was upset. That’s why the FB post. A Xanax or two to get some sleep. It’s what I am prescribed. See? Xanax. Just that bottle. I had turned the volume off my phone (which, btw, now the volume is always off on my phone). Because the dogs were at daycare so there was no barking. My room is directly over the front door, I never hear anyone at the door when I am in bed. Plus my TV is always on, and 3 or 4 fans run in my room.

I was given a quick vital stat check. The checked my pulse. They checked my breathing. They examined my eyes. They continued talking to me for about 15 minutes.

I was too confused to be angry about all this.

Until they left.

I watched as the three fire trucks, the ambulance, and the Sheriff’s vehicles pulled away in parade formation – a parade for me.

The crowd of neighbor’s dissipated.

I sent an angry message to said friend about how could she have done that to me, about how embarrassed and horrified I was. How could she think I would do something to myself?

She quickly blocked me on Facebook. (Side note: I made her wait 6 months and she had to beg before I would be her Facebook friend again. That power was slightly dizzying. )

I spent the next month in a social media and social anything boycott.

I went to yoga, instead.

And I still pretend that none of that Fan Fare was actually for me and instead it was just a horrifying nightmare.

It was, however, the last time I took Xanax. I made a conscious decision that I was never to be labelled “crazy” again. Ever. And that meant no more medication. I cleaned myself up. I did it on my own, and I did it for me. Xanax would no longer be my crutch.

I was medication-free for a year and a half before Jack’s father’s psycho bitch fake Facebook fianc√© drama required me to take it again.

I fucking hate Facebook.

Other posts (stories) in this series:

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