Last week was a little intense.
Turns out it's not OK to not take my meds for three or four days. Turns out that's more than enough time to embark on a downward spiral. And, it turns out, it takes a few days to emerge from the abyss once you've gazed into it and gotten back on the damn meds.
Brain chemistry, you guys. Don't fuck with it.
|It leads to feelings of revulsion|
and disgust. Eating eggs, I mean.
I am, however, strong like female Russian cow.
|I'm udderly indefatigable. Hehe. I kill myself.|
Or, more accurately, German-Polish hybrid cow. Oddly enough, it's mostly made of sausage.
|I am from sausage-loving stock.|
Anyway, it's been quite a week. I planted beans, you guys. #Bean2017 is on. Photo essays until you want to stab yourself in the eyes are coming. Also, possibly, tomatoes. We'll have to see how brave I feel. At the moment, I'm not so brave.
I discovered I can pay my taxes. I love everything about being single, except being screwed by the IRS because I'm no longer married. Also, I discovered to my chagrin that Precocious Daughter aged out of the child tax credit when she turned 17 in November. So she's just dead weight to me now. But I can handle the unexpected extra tax burden. Because someone, whose name has three letters and ends with "d," is watching over me. (It's my dad, OK?)
I want to write about health care, and the stunning, gripping, historic events of last Friday, when the Republican-led house couldn't pass the bill it's had seven years to perfect.
I want to write about Chuck Berry, whom we lost recently, and how damn much his music means to me.
I want to write about Hamilton, because PDaughter and I have become obsessed with the musical, and it literally runs in a loop in my head all day long. Possibly it saved my sanity, I don't know.
|Probably Lin-Manuel Miranda is the hero Gotham deserves,|
and also is adorable.
Mostly, I want to write because writing makes me feel normal and gives me hope. And makes me believe that feeling hopeful is normal.
I've decided that I will be published on McSweeney's Internet Tendency this year, come hell, high water, or several dozen polite rejections. Even if I loathe myself by the time it happens. Because if a writer doesn't loathe herself, who will?
I've decided that being strong is hard, but being weak is like carrying 150 pounds of dead squid on your back for eternity.
|For one thing, it stinks.|
I'm grateful to everyone who loves me. And to generic Prozac, which keeps me tethered to reality for less than eight bucks a month, so long as I actually get around to refilling my prescription.
And to Drummer Boy, whom I don't deserve.
ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS: To me, weakness feels like 150 pounds of dead squid. How does it feel to you?