Monday, March 27, 2017

So Long, And Thanks for All the Squid

Oops, I haven't posted in a while. Sorry.

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'm just now starting to feel slightly more normal after several days of loosey-goosey-where's-the-noosey emotional havoc. Don't worry, I was never in any danger of harming myself. I have a truce with myself on that score, and it is iron-clad. But thoughts...well, thoughts leave no scars but still pack a hell of a wallop.

I am, however, strong like female Russian cow.

I'm udderly indefatigable. Hehe. I kill myself.
NOT literally.
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?


  1. Ooh! A comment thread topic! I like this game!

    First off, I want to say that I'm glad you're back on your meds and are doing better. I also want you to know that I love you, as a writer AND a friend, and I hope you already know all of this, but I'm glad you're here and that you've let me be a part of your life and that you absolutely do deserve all of the happy things (including ((but not limited to)) Drummer Boy), that life has to offer.

    On to the topic!

    Weakness to me is a mountain covered in snakes. And the rope one would use to help get up said mountain is also a snake. I don't do snakes. I'd rather eat a jar full of angry wasps than climb a snake rope, and I refuse to eat wasps -- angry or not.

  2. Weakness to me is like lying in an overheated bed, tangled in sweaty, smelly sheets but being too exhausted to get up.

    I've given up on McSweeney's, but I'm all ears for Hamilton talk. I listen to it allllll the time.

  3. Weakness to me feels like my head is wrapped in twenty pounds of gauze. So not that bad.
    I'm glad you're back. I look forward to the beans. Not so much the tomatoes. I really don't like tomatoes, at least not raw. That makes me a terrible person.

  4. Glad you found your equilibrium, even if it took a while.

    Weakness feels like Tuesday.

    Seriously. It's Tuesday, and I I used all of my energy to head into Monday, and the rest of the week ahead of me seems huge.

    Tuesdays are rough.


You're thinking it, you may as well type it. The only comments you'll regret are the ones you don't leave. Also, replies to threads make puppies grow big and strong.