Left My Xanax in La La Land

New town. Different shit show. Same me.

Traded anxiety meds, booze and men, for palm trees and a new perspective.
Still unpacking the trauma—but at least the view doesn’t suck.

View slap

Some people move to Mexico for cheap rent, sunny beaches, tacos and tequila or to escape the political dumpster fire. (Or the actual fires that just happened in Los Angeles)

I came to outrun a shiny illusion I couldn’t survive—Hollywood writing gigs, a narcissistic ex, a buffet of addictions, and just enough denial to keep the circus spinning… until it didn’t.

The breakdown started (this time) when I caught my ex having an affair.
But let’s be real—I’d been spiraling long before that.
Self-destruction had become a side hustle.
I just disguised it with career milestones and overpriced shoes.

Writing is cheaper than therapy—and ‘Escape to Mexico’ is what spilled out when I started sorting through the rubble.

"From Red Carpets to Cobblestones"
Swapping Hollywood glam for authentic charm.

Here’s a little taste from Chapter 1: The Stalker
Poll in the comments: who was more toxic—him, her… or me? 🥴💔👀
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I can’t do this anymore. My head’s a mess, and my heart? It’s racing like it’s trying to make a break for it.
But screw it, I’m doing it anyway.
Here I am, creeping down my boyfriend’s street, doing a sketchy drive-by ‘cause I know the mofo is cheating. Maybe it’s just my cray-cray “woman’s intuition” kicking in but I’m out here hunting for evidence, and I can feel tonight’s the night.

A few months back, I tried to surprise Nick with some steamy much needed sex after I flew back early to LA from a New York work trip. Then I spotted a suspicious unknown white Prius in his driveway - which hit me like a punch to the gut, but instead of barging in, I dipped.

When we went to dinner the following night, I got up the nerve and grilled him about it. “Whose car was that, Nick?”
He fed me some BS about it belonging to a buddy. Right. As if I don’t know all his friends—and none of them would be caught dead in anything less than a German engineered ride or a ugly Tesla.

I wanted to press him and get the name of the buddy he meant and corner him in the stupid lie, but I wasn’t in the mood for a blowout, especially since I still wanted sex. So I let it slide. But since then, I’ve been rolling by his place every now and then when the paranoia sets in, waiting to spot that shady white Prius again with the license plate ending in X2B.

But there’s no car in the driveway. Not tonight anyway.
I’m relieved, another day I can breathe, and not have to give up enjoying all the sweet perks that come with dating Nick. He’s actually really great… aside from occasionally making me want to swan dive off the Golden Gate Bridge. Minor detail.

He’s basically every girl’s dream - unfortunately for me; sea blue eyes, a killer dimpled smile, and a wicked sense of humor that floors me every time. Most importantly, the sex is mind blowing - at least it was for the first few years. Throw in his flashy status, the shopping sprees and private jet getaways and you start to see why I’ve ignored every flaming red flag so far.

Oh, and I love him - but that’s beside the point.
As I cruise past his Malibu mini-mansion, I notice his lights come on and his front door opens. That’s weird, Nick doesn’t use the front door. Only the garage door. I slam on the brakes, throw my car in reverse, and tuck myself behind the neighbor’s trees.
Someone is coming out of his house.

Who the hell is that? I can barely see through the trees, but she looks like some waif-thin model slash aspiring starlet in a form-fitting dress that leaves zero to the imagination. Then I see Nick - MY Nick - handing her a coat from the rack by the door, and I nearly choke when I realize it’s MY Burberry. He gives her a quick kiss before he closes the door. This skinny bitch sashays down the steps in sky-high stilettos before strutting down the street in this upscale neighborhood looking very out of place. Except for my coat.
What the hell?

I trail her like a ghost, headlights off, until she finally stops two blocks down—right beside the white Prius with the plate X2B. My gut twists. That’s the one. She’s about to climb in when I pull up, roll down my window, and wave at her, smiling. Gotta play nice if I want any answers. “Hey, who are you?” I ask, trying not to sound like a total psycho stalker.

She narrows her eyes, sarcasm dripping: "No, who are you?"
I swallow hard. "I'm Nick's girlfriend."
Her face twists into a smug grin, every bit as icy as her tone. “Oh, poor you. I’m his new girlfriend.”
What the actual hell? I snap, “No, you're the ho he makes park down the street.”
She lets out a vicious cackle, "Rather be the ho who gets her rent paid than the stupid bitch he’s lying to."
Wait, what did she just say?
I replay her words in my head, making sure I heard it correctly. She said it so smoothly, like she’d rehearsed that line a hundred times like a script she’s auditioning for, waiting for the moment to drop it on me.

My head spins. It’s obvious they talked about me and Nick warned her about his psycho girlfriend telling her to park down the street. My instincts scream for me to leap out of the car, gouge her eyes out, and yank my coat off her bony frame. So of course I do. I jump out, shouting, “I want my Burberry back!” ​​

For a second, I spot real fear in her eyes—she knows I’m about to send her to the ER. But she still has the nerve to sneer, “It’s a nice fit, thanks. Not really my color though,” screeching away before I can get my hands on her.

I get back into my car and sit shaking in shock. My worst nightmare is officially real - but now what? If I storm in and confront him, it’s over. If I drive home and calm down, maybe there’s a slim chance to fix this and salvage whatever is left. My mind spirals: What the hell did I do wrong? Was I too clingy, too selfish, not fulfilling his needs? Or is he just another Hollywood scumbag who can’t keep it in his pants, some sex-crazed maniac needing his next fix? So many questions, and none of them have good answers.

I know I should tear out of here, but my rage is locked and loaded now. I can’t let Nick get away with this shit and walk away unscathed. I yank out a pint of vodka from the glove box, choke down a fiery swig of courage, then circle back to his driveway. Heart hammering, I march up to his door and stab the bell. I can hardly breathe, terrified of what the hell he’s going to say.

A minute later, a wild-eyed, bed-headed Nick peers out through the iron viewer,
"Sup?" he says, coolly. Icy blues staring at me from across the grill.
I force my voice steady trying to remain calm. "Who’s the girl, Nick?"
He shrugs, trying to act all nonchalant, "What girl?"
"The white Prius Burberry girl."
He roars, "Stop stalking me!" Then slams the viewer shut in my face.
Ufff.
The air just got sucked out of me. Three words and I’m gutted. I disappear into the shock of it for a split second, then come back swinging. “You call being with you for four years stalking?” I yell, banging on his door. "Open the door, Nick. Open the damn door, you coward."
Of course, there's no way he's opening it, knowing full well I'll go ballistic on his cheating ass. I catch a glimpse of the spineless wimp peeking through his upstairs window curtain.

I kick the door in my Louboutin bootie. Not so smart. It hurts my foot more than the door. Limping, I head for the porch window I know he keeps unlocked. I tug at it causing the house alarm to go off. Crap.

Nick appears on the balcony in the black silky robe I bought him for Christmas, shouting, “I’m calling the cops! You’re certifiable!”

I limp back to my car, screaming, “Think you can just toss me away like a used tissue, you worm shit!?”

I peel out, rattling off every synonym for “douche” I can conjure. Deep down, I always knew he was full of it—I’ve just been waiting to bust him. Now I have proof I’m not the crazy nut job he gas-lit me into believing I was.

I crank the techno music on the radio up so cars driving by can’t hear me screaming at the top of my lungs. Tears blur my vision as I blow through every red light on the PCH until I finally screech to a halt at a liquor store. I stock up on Malbec, more vodka, a jumbo bag of Cheetos, and a giant size Kit Kat. Nothing says “I’m losing it” like a sugar-and-booze bender on a coastal highway.

Next stop: In-N-Out Burger. I peel out of the drive through with two Double-Doubles (animal style, of course) and a pile of fries, then steer one-handed back toward my apartment in Venice Beach, cramming greasy goodness into my face the whole way.

__
Chapter 2 drops next week.
This story is for the runners.
The escape artists.
The ones who change countries, lovers, and vices—hoping one will stick.
Eventually, it all crumbles…and that’s when the real story starts.
It’s about to get real.

Virtual hugs,
Cyn the Bougie Hippie

Visit me in Mexico

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