Yesterday I hit a record for comments – EIGHT comments! I was so excited a peed a little in my chair and then busted out crying tears of joy. But don’t worry, I put a towel down first.
So it turns out that some
overworked underpaid healthcare professional doofus ordered the Strattera and not the Wellbutrin. So it will be another 7 to 10 business days until the happy pills arrive. Great, genius; don’t order the crazy lady’s brain-altering pharmaceuticals. Just overlook that silly little task.
A wonderful galpal of mine let me ‘borrow’ some of her generic wellbutrin until I can ‘pay her back’ when mine arrives. It’s a small supply so I’m taking half doses. It’s also generic non-time-released so it starts to wear off in the evenings after supper but definitely better than nothing.
But, guys, tomorrow it will have been two weeks without the happy pills and I’m amazed at how well I managed to stifle The Crazy. NO scary ‘suicidal ideation’. None. I had some emo sneak up and blindside me — damn those baby-stuff commercials and also damn any sitcom that has any script that calls for someone to start crying, because sure as hell that’s a trigger for the waterworks! [Scrubs, you traitor, you call yourself a comedy, for cryin’ out loud!] — and some mood swings akin to a clock pendulum on meth. I had several mornings I couldn’t make it out of bed until 10 and several afternoons I couldn’t have accomplished anything even if you waved $100 bills in my face. But I’m still here.
My doctor has informed me that there is no cure for my severe clinical depression, so I can look forward to years and years of popping that little reminder that I’m broken and my brain can’t handle its seratonin. My brain is the one that is, come last call, passed out under the table in a pool of its own urine after a night of dopamine and norepinephrine jello shooters. All the other “normal” brains can pick up my brain and hose down all the stink off and tuck it into bed to sleep off the hangover; but forget staging an intervention, because there is no rehab for my brain. My brain is the one that signs out of the inpatient program and makes a beeline to the corner to score again. My brain is the one sleeping under the overpass, empty bottles of dopamine and norepinephrine littering the area. My brain is the one sitting on the gritty sidewalk, slack-jawed, drooling, staring at nothingness.
As fantastic as this is, there is more good news. There’s no cure for ADD either! Woo hooo! I can look forward to a lifetime of forgetting anything remotely important. I can tell you that the three ships that came to the New World in search of the Indies in 1492 were the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. But what did I do last weekend? Umm, gimme a few minutes, and I might be able to enlighten you. What are we doing this weekend? Better ask Hunky. My brain is the one stumbling and muttering to itself, side-stepping the unfinished projects and debris littering what barely passes as our humble abode. Hey… is that a chicken?! OOOooo look; something shiny. Let’s go ride bikes! There’s that chicken again! Did the chicken come first, or the egg? What should we have for supper? I heard that Cheerios lower your cholesterol. Let’s go buy some! Our economy seems to be headed for a recession. I remember chasing Rusty at recess when I was in first grade. Maybe I should get the rust on my Stratus fixed. Then it will be shiny again!
That’s all we have time for today, kids. See you next show; same bad time, same bad station.
Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dudes. And chicks. Especially chicks.