Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Sir Crazy-A-Lot Meets Papa Pill

A bowl of oatmeal is perched precariously on the arm rest of the loveseat on which my pale, pasty ass has found a home. The oatmeal has brown sugar and a touch o' molasses and will line what is left of my stomach for the pills that will soon follow. The cute little brown pill bottles have directions for me, and "take with food" is one of them. One has to be careful not to blindly follow all instructions, however. That's something I learned when my shampoo told me to "lather, rinse, repeat." Following those directions had me caught in a Sisyphean loop. Two days later the fire department knocked down the door to my flat and pulled me, naked and babbling, out of the then ice cold shower.

Pills.

The first pill I sucked into my face at around 6:15 this morning was 0.112 micrograms of levoxythyroxine. That's for my lack of a functioning thyroid. After that, surgical nerve damage to my crotch, on either side of my wang, caused a dull ache that ever so gently mocks me almost every day. It's strange to feel that my body is mocking me, and I'm sure it's yet another sign that I'm touched. Not by an angel, more like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men." My painful balls were removed, and the incision that was made is now painful. Savor the hilarious irony.

My ghost balls are rattling around and haunting my groin. Boo! "Ghost Balls" is also the name of a surprisingly successful Don Knott's vehicle.

The day will have me inhaling 2-8 mgs of lorazepam, 225 mgs of Effexor XR, as well as 900mgs of lithium carbonate and a bit of propranolol, a heart medication that has found use against panic attacks and anxiety. Tramadol for the groin pain, as well.

At this moment, my cat, Impy, is begging for lap space. She will get it. She gets whatever she wants. It's a hard world for the little things, but in this flat I can spoil the beasts. Spoiling your pet is like creating an umbrella of compassion in a harsh and random world. God clearly wants it harsh out there, so every time I spoil a pet it's like a little "fuck you" to the Almighty.

You have to savor the good times.

Anyway, at around 9am I rubbed testosterone all over my shoulders. It's an alcohol gel, and it dries very quickly. Good thing, as it is also very flammable.

If you add up all these drugs, the cost, that is, along with drugs taken only in crisis (like Risperdal) you get $5,971 worth of pills and gel per year. And that doesn't include therapy, a ten day hospitalization, and psychiatric drug management clinics every six weeks.

You don't need to know any of this, but I like for people to know that I work very hard at trying to get better. Unfortunately, there may not be any room to get better. This may be as good as I get. If that's true, I desperately need to make peace with who I am.

If I do, I'll be the first prick in history to do so.

I should try to enjoy the ride, appreciate the absurdity, laugh at the moon, that sort of thing. Not that I don't, I just need to do so more often...and feel it, as the cornerstone of a life philosophy. To cast false guilt aside as worthless, as it is.

Self-acceptance. It comes in pill and herb form, and I'm not hesitant about finding salvation from myself via what my father calls, "magic pills." The magic ones are usually hard to find, and are rarely prescribed. The prescribed ones I mentioned lovingly take the edge off and give you a fighting chance, if you're of a disposition to put up a fight. That's the trick of it, however.

Vicodin fights for you. Marijuana makes you a lover, not a fighter. Sake...emboldens.

Mental illness like mine can be treated, to quiet the voices and rob the distortion of its power to compel self-destruction. But even a 100% "cured" mental illness (nobody speaks of a "cure" in psychiatry, patient or provider) leaves a fragile, very mortal human animal.

In other words, normalcy does not relieve you of pain, uncertainty, loneliness, any of it. So in order to find happiness, we have to reach past "normal" and find something truly rare for anyone: contentment.

It's rare to find people who are at peace with themselves, the world, and Margaret Cho.

It's also rare to find a really good pickle.

4 comments:

Apocalypse Cow said...

Along with brisket, bagels, and pastrami, I trust the jews with my pickles.

I loved your statement about animals. So true.

Darren W. Lyle said...

A good deli pickle. Damn! I also hang with the Jews on comedy...and being nervous around Christians and NASCAR.

I once told someone that I went to a Unitarian Universalist church every so often. He disdainfully called me a, "Jew-nitarian" because we don't "accept" Christ.

So I'm a UU (albeit an atheist), a radical leftie, a supporter of the ACLU, and I'm not fond of sports or much of anything in the midwest.

I'm an honorary Jew.

Apocalypse Cow said...

I was married in a UU church.(the one in JP) Our readings were from an ancient Chinese text and a Spanish poet. UUs are great, they're just a bunch of people who like a good get together and a good coffee hour!

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