There was a genuine period of time this month where I would’ve done anything to get a particular 21-year-old professional tennis player to fall in love with me. Maybe I sound like I’m exaggerating. Only a little bit — I wouldn’t do “anything,” but I did try to look so cute sitting courtside1 at 1am. Why did I do this? I am an adult woman with a master’s degree. Yet what I wanted more than anything was for a stinky boy (confirmed, when he walked by us after practicing) who still follows Vivek Ramaswamy on Instagram to notice me.
I have to chalk it up to August Psychosis, a psychological condition where you go batshit fucking crazy in August. The reasons for August Psychosis are myriad and difficult to discern. Maybe it’s the stars, maybe the heat. I wondered for a while if it was the start of the academic year, something I still adhere to, at my big age. Wishing you’d made more of your summer break, but all you did was sit in the sun and get mosquito bites. Even that, you didn’t do enough of!
The condition manifests differently in different people. For me, August Psychosis involves becoming hyperfixated on the stature of my life. That is, feeling like shit about myself. I am turning 27 next month; a teen online might say I’m “pushing 30.” I wanted to live a sexy life as a writer or comic or whatever in LA or New York and I didn’t even try, so instead here I am, trying to write a dissertation about self-checkout that only my two extremely kind and beloved co-advisors will ever read, watching Instagram clips of people I went to college with doing standup in New York. (And, in one case, chart on Billboard LOL)
I am being ungrateful for my beautiful, lovely, safe, full life. I don’t think I would truly prefer a life where I’m furiously pursuing artistic success (maybe a proxy for fame, or being cool) over the one I have now, where I play soccer and see my parents every weekend and go to the pool with my friends.
I thought I had gotten over this smallness. I thought I had maybe even realized the smallness was an illusion, and that what appeared small was in actuality something unknowably expansive. I thought I had maybe even grown to love it. (I’ve written about this feeling of inadequacy a lot — so much that maybe you guys are annoyed, thinking all this bitch does is complain!!!)2
But how can you feel like you matter sitting amidst hundreds of other small people, all facing two beautiful young athletes, hypnotically moving your head alongside the ball, back and forth, back and forth? You are all so unimportant, compared to the two on the court, lithe and muscular — stunning, really — who are making millions of dollars from playing a game that you probably also play, or wish you did. They must be so special, so beloved, so interesting. And you are just one of many, gasping and oohing and ahhing. Don’t dare draw attention to yourself by shouting or throwing something or invading the pitch/court/field. Who do you think you are? Ruining this for everyone.3
This year, in the deepest woes of August Psychosis, I told some friends that my annual obsessions with celebrity and excellence feel sickening, because I don’t think I’m so different from these beautiful, beloved, talented people. I think of the distance between us as quite narrow, because I am just as smart and interesting as them. But when I see the distance for what it is — a big chasm, ratios of hundreds to two, hundreds to one, even — I get unsettled. After all, I could be up there, getting what I want. I am as good as the person on the stage, aren’t I?
A lot has been made of “main character syndrome,” to the point where Cleveland Clinic and WebMD have SEO-friendly explainers that link out to descriptions of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, implicitly pathologizing what is otherwise, I think, a healthy bit of imagination and fantasy. Social media and its reliance on self-presentation exacerbates the urge to feel big. After all, my profile on Instagram is laid out just like Dua Lipa’s. We are both performing fame, just on a different scale. To some people, I am big, and perhaps those people care about me the same way I care about, I don’t know, Dua Lipa. (Which is to say, maybe not so much, but enough that I’m intrigued.) Sometimes I scroll through my Instagram, imagining how it might look like to someone else. A boy I like, a religious cousin I have, an ex-friend from grad school. It is sadly thrilling to temporarily see yourself as the protagonist of something or another.
Courtside at the Citi Open, I took some videos, tagged the 21-year-old player on Instagram, and changed my profile to be public. If I’m being so honest, so completely and totally honest, I wanted him to see what I posted, click on my profile, and think: Wow, what a complex and unappreciatedly beautiful young woman, who seems age appropriate for me and not at all slightly too old. And then eventually we would hold hands on the red carpet at the ESPYs and I could be wearing big sunglasses looking stoic in his box at next year’s US Open.
He saw the stories but did nothing. That is to be expected! It’s how it’s supposed to go. I am a random person. Yet it feels weird, doesn’t it? Later that week, my friend and I watched him practice and cackled to ourselves while developing Y/N fanfiction-type scenarios. The girl with the messy bun reading a book at the One Direction concert, or that new Anne Hathaway movie. He wasn’t returning well, and we began to throw around ideas for a beautiful story. Imagine his coach, exasperated, turns to the crowd of onlookers: Can anyone here show him how to hit a return? My friend would shyly raise her hand. And he’d be a little embarrassed, but also curious. Who was this beautiful young woman who returned his serve so well?
We played off our imaginary scenarios as one big joke (I mean, we have some self-respect), but our daydreams were tethered to something true, the way a ballon is tied to a stone.
I’m reminded of an August four years ago when my friend and I sat in our respective cars in a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, talking through my passenger-side and her driver-side windows so we wouldn’t get each other sick. “It’s kind of nice,” she said, after we’d been chatting about one of our old classmates, “that at the end of the day everyone is just normal.” I thought it was absurd. What’s so nice about that?
I was being so stupid and so crazy. It’s sad, pathetic even. Unfortunately, there’s no cure for August Psychosis, only palliative care. As we float into the latter half of August I am finally shedding this insanity. Damn, what the fuck was that? I have work to do in my real life. I won’t be at Charli XCX’s birthday party or in the VIP suite at a grand slam, at least not anytime soon. I have a workshop paper due at the end of the month. I need to vacuum my room and clean out my closet. I need to literally find a job, oh my god. My friends’ wedding is in mere weeks and I still have to get 3 outfits. I need to actually do my hip exercises before I run so I don’t get hurt again. My world is small — and it is busy enough!
some things:
The new season of Emily in Paris came out and made absolutely 0 noise. What’s happening to the society I knew and loved(I mean hated)? This is how I feel and my only thought on the matter:
I’ve become addicted to Instagram Reels which I may write about next time. My reels are all andrew tate clips + christian guys lamenting not being able to find a pious girl in today’s society. I can’t lie I love it, I might become radicalized into a misogynist soon.
I have also become obsessed with this “Irish” guy on Instagram who tries Iranian foods and wears Iranian soccer jerseys and pronounces Farsi phrases in an odd (Northern?) English cadence.
There was apparently some “substack discourse” about the quality of writing on this platform. I personally have no idea what’s been said or not because I don’t really spend time on substack.com (seems kind of stupid to do that when my instagram reels are so good) — But I have thought for a while that reading others’ Substacks — particularly diaristic ones from people I don’t know personally — is becoming tiring. I worry others are tiring of my writing as well, although the point of this outlet has always been for me, for me, for me! Perhaps I shouldn’t take it personally; I don’t think the people I’m unsubscribing from are bad people or (worse) bad writers. I am just not in the mood.
Anyway, this is the article on substack writing that was somewhat controversial but which I thought was quite on-point:
I also liked this take, bc it more closely follows my experience of online writing (mostly for my friends and for myself) for the past several years:
My take if you care - The problem with a lot of writing on here is that many people want to write without having to think. I want to do this, too, because it’s far easier than thinking and writing. But it makes for boring, trite, empty outputs.
I kind of think the new beabadoobee album is really good:)
This profile of Nancy Pelosi is kind of awesome. Sometimes you need to read about a true bitch who loves power
I feel like there was a time where if Jia Tolentino sneezed the world would talk about it. So why didn’t I see any discussion around this recent piece of hers about the new-ish tweenage skincare obsession? I am always looking to read more about beauty these days, because I’m also like, maybe I need to go to Iran and get a million cosmetic procedures done for cheap. And then I’m like. That’s kinda fucked up. And then I remember when #someone called me “a materialist” (sic - he meant to say materialistic) and it actually offended me a lot
Been watching some movies in spite of my attention span. I can’t stop talking about Twisters for some reason, because I keep seeing qualitative/quantitative dichotomies everywhere and I’m like: This is just like in Twisters. Twisters: A story about indigenous ways of knowing (minus the indigeneity). I also watched the Before trilogy for the first time, thanks to 123movies. I think I understand a lot of annoying ass filmmakers now — they’ve been trying to bite Linklater4’s swag for almost 30 years. (You will never be him)
Okay — That’s all for now. Love me or hate me, at least you scrolled.
PM
To be clear I was only allowed to sit there because the match started at 11:30pm on a Wednesday and so many people had left that they were begging for seat fillers
While writing this I kept thinking about my Abby Wambach letter from last year
Realizing I also wrote about this in my Macklemore Concert essay. have i run out of ideas and things to say? damn
Hardly know her
" trying to write a dissertation about self-checkout that only my two extremely kind and beloved co-advisors will ever read". Do you know this is my hobby, scouring the web for grad theses to read? I'll happily read this tooooo so pls share :)