It's all George Bush's fault

Back in October, I was sitting on the couch. You know, THE couch. The one in the doctor's office. Damn, that boy has a fine leather couch.

Anyway, he was asking me all of the questions that you get during your med management visit. Appetite? Sleep? Sex drive? Whatever, whatever.

I gave him the run down on my life at the moment and we sorted through the pile. Depression-related? Med-related? Neither?

I looked at him straight in the eye. "I want carbs. I want alcohol. I refrain from hitting the bottle but I'm happy to load up on raisin toast. I get no sleep. I'd like to want more sex. And I'm trying to figure how to pin all of this on George Bush in an election year."

He burst out laughing but I was deadly serious. I have few passions, but politics and media (along with my devestatingly charming and understanding husband) top the list. Jon Stewart has been better for me than AD's since 1999. He is one of the two men in my life who keep me sane on a daily basis. (Sorry for the pressure, Jon.)

As I stand here on the edge of another year with many life decisions weighing on me and getting all tangled up in med issues, ONE thing is perfectly clear.

Those negative voices in my head? The ones that tell me, "You can't do that. You'll fail. You're getting old. Just give it up"....those voices? They aren't MY voices.

They are Republicans.

I am used to giving these voices a lot of attention. They've gotten all of the voting rights. I have been letting them run the show. No more.

They might have the majority vote in Congress and their leader is screwing up the world. But they will no longer have the majority vote in my head.

Majority Assclown Tom DeLay can kiss my sweet temporal lobe. I'm shutting him down.



Digging up old memories...another story

In the summer of '95, I changed jobs. For someone who goes through med management et al., this meant that I could:
  1. stay in the job that was driving me slowly over the edge...but get insurance coverage!
  2. change jobs and but pay for my own med management for a year until my "pre-existing clause" expired.
  3. change jobs, join the HMO for coverage, and be forced to change doctors. Start diagnosis and treatments all over again because "continuation of care" is not a phrase recognized by most HMO's. A foot is a foot with any doctor, a brain is a brain with any doctor, right?
I joined the HMO. A bad move in hindsight. Ah well.

The new doc "re-diagnosed me", took me off of the meds I was on, and put me on new meds. A WHOLE LOT of meds. Meds on top of meds. Whoo. I needed meds for my med side effects. It was more than a med cocktail, it was a MED BUFFET!

After many sleepless nights and hallucinating that I was seeing people walking through my living room, I decided enough was enough. I grabbed my purse, hailed a cab in my pajamas, and went to the ER. This did not actually happen in a straightforward manner, but I have little memory of it. I'm sure the cab driver is still recovering.

I sat there--waiting--in an Emergency Room in downtown Chicago--alone and out of it. I had been crying, I was in my pajamas, I hadn't showered or eaten in days. I was a graduate school student with a full time job and a nice apartment who was melting down in tiny scattered droplets of mental mercury all over the floor.

I remember only one thing from my wait there.

Some guy two chairs away tried to get my phone number for a date.

Now, I am not gorgeous. And certainly not so with greasy hair, glasses, a thousand-mile stare, bad breath, all teary and mucus-slimed, and wearing sweats. If I had been less out of it, I would have smacked this guy upside the head with my purse. After I stared at him, he just got up and WALKED OUT! He didn't need to be there! He was actually cruising the ER!

What WHACKED A** FETISH do you have to have to be JONESIN' for some EMERGENCY ROOM PATIENT???!!! This is weirder than feet. This is more pathetic than getting stomped on by some chick in high heels.

And that guy? A helluva lot crazier than me, if you ask my opinion.

He probably works for an HMO.


What? Where? Huh?

Where did the last 13 days go? Seriously.

I think my soul was sucked out of the top of my head and stashed with the dust bunnies under the couch. At least, that is where I found it today when I actually entered a fit of cleaning frenzy--accomplishing a shower AND vacuuming all in one day.

(I have to do at least one of each per year. Showering & vacuuming, that is. And the calendar was telling me that my time was almost up.)

What is it about the holidays that sucks out my soul? The consumerism? The expectations? The cleaning? Multi-tasking? Emotional rollercoaster? Enforced FAMILY TIME? Guilt? Skeletons in closets? Yup. Yup. All of it. I am simultaneously drawn in by Jimmy Stewart's promise of redemption and warm holiday cheer; and Scrooge's efficient coping strategy of jamming a wool hat on and taking to my bed for the whole week. Screw the ghosts of Christmas past, present AND future...they can get their OWN down comforter. I'm not sharing with those three.

Unless they bring lots of chocolate and alcohol. I will always make more room in bed for anyone who brings those.