1. If your doctor refuses to re-submit a very important insurance form when a five-figure hospital bill is at stake because he doesn't want to incur to additional copy fees, you should probably get a new doctor.
2. If a very cute former CNN-Asia correspondent asks you for your card, you shouldn't say "Oh, it's my last one and I need to save it for that blonde former Fox Sports anchor." (Don't worry, I only said the first part which probably explains why she was sitting on my lap at the end of the night instead of pouring vodka on my head.)
3. The designated driver should not be drinking more than the passenger. Ugh.
I usually have a spate of college-related dreams about four times a year. Mostly they're either the first day of class no idea where I'm going or last day of class haven't studied for finals variety.
This last week, I've been dreaming of high school. What the hell? Am I started to regress? What's a real kick in the pants is that in the dream, when I meet somebody I suddenly realize I'm thirty-two (though I still don't realize it's a dream). I mean it's quite a come down when you realize that pretty redhead who starts singing Lou Reed's "Perfect Day" with you after biology is half your friggin' age.
There was a book I read a long time ago in which the author correlated bipolar disorders and depression with creativity. It was dry and clinical, which accounts for me not reading all of it and forgetting its name. Anyway, given my current "meh" status, I wouldn't be surprised if the correlation was true. That impulse to create comes from emotion, and if you have no emotion, you might as well write instructions on how to construct cardboard boxes. I used to have tons of ideas, and now, as I said before, "meh."
So what does that mean? I don't want to give up writing just yet. I'm sure there are well-adjusted or highly medicated authors out there. Anyway, I was wondering how all those works by writers in the pre-better living through chemistry era would've turned out if Lexapro had existed.
Edgar Allen Poe--Wrote "Nevermore-- a poem about a man whose wife died, got over it, and married an accountant's daughter from Gaithersburg. Nevermore refers to the mince pie first wife used to make but second wife couldn't repeat the recipe. Hence he nevermore had the pie.
Shakespeare--Wrote "Hamlet"--A comedy about a prince whose father died, so he goes on a comic romp around the world to find himself with his dead father's ghost--the original odd couple.
Rutger Hauer's final soliliquy in Bladerunner--"I've seen things that are mundane beyond belief. Fat chicks eating fries on the shoulder of the Eat N' Go. I've seen traveling salesman picking up dry cleaning near Cleveland. All this will be gone, like something that isn't permanent. Feh."
So what's life like half a month into my antidepressants? Well, it can be summed up by the following: "I don't give a shit." Wait! I mean that in a good way, as opposed to an existential nothing matters to me so long cruel world way.
Here's what I mean. Is there a lack of work and mounting medical bills in my life? I don't give a shit.
Friend of a friend hasn't forwarded me the digits of the cute blonde lawyer I talked to this weekend? I don't give a shit.
Life seems to be stalled and there's a part of me thinking it won't unstall? I don't give a shit.
It's not really apathy. Yes, the problems are still there, but I'm not freaking out in a spiral of despair, panic and annoyingness like I usually do. If I eventually need to take action, cool. Otherwise, why worry.
On the downside--there's a part of me that misses some emotion. There is a sort of disaffected middling average type of vibe going in my brain. I guess I was expecting some sort of sunshiney day type feeling, but mainly, it's kinda cloudy.
There's nothing like a cute happa chick who you find out later is a Playboy Playmate calling you "Mr. Writer" all night long at a party to give you a really fuzzy warm feeling. I suggest you try it sometime, though without the whole her boyfriend is the host of the party sorta thing. We know that Marty has blown his hitting on chicks with boyfriends/fiances quota for his lifetime.
Before I was hospitalized, I had trouble getting a full night's sleep--I'd wake up hyperventalating with my heart beating at 120 bpm. Now, I sleep too much.
Last night, my sleep was filled with dreams about various Playboy Playmates wandering around my pad. You'd think that would be a good thing, but I was mostly bored in the dream. Then my dream segued into a party on the rooftop of a highrise.
There were no guard rails, so one slip and off you fell eighty stories. My parents had dragged me to this soiree--it was a business meeting/reunion for them. I was trying not to panic--even without my fear of heights, eighty stories would have still been daunting. The roof was only ten feet by ten feet, so there was not much room. Then I freaked out and grabbed the floor, not wanting to slip off the side. I told my parents to lead me off, but they just got pissed, ignored me and went back to their mingling.
I eventually made my way back to the interior of the high rise (which was a hotel). I was trying to find my room, but I spent the rest of the dream lost.
The staff at current Contract Gig think that I haven't been coming in because I'm sick. Sometimes, perception becomes reality which is frustrating. I haven't been coming in because it is slooooooooow.
I e-mailed the lawyers at Contract Gig to politely remind them I'm available for work yesterday. Then this morning, I remembered that, due to the craptastic e-mail system, the office e-mail sometimes doesn't receive AOL e-mails (the Contract Gig's IT system is a rant for another day). Anyway, I called the receptionist and the first thing she said was "How are you feeling?" Obviously, perception is becoming reality. I said, "OK" and then asked her to send out an e-mail to the lawyers saying I'm available for work so that the lawyers don't think I'm still sick. Last thing I need is for the Contract Gig to send work elsewhere because they think I'm dying of consumption.
In the meantime, I know I should be doing something constructive, like write my friggin' novel. Instead, I'm still in hands over my ears screaming "Lalalalalala" mode.
The rainfall in Los Angeles during the last four days has supposedly already surpassed the average annual rainfall. Floods are carrying away homes (mostly mobile), hills are falling and cards are crashing into the ocean. Luckily, I've been at home which is getting rather musty since the windows are closed. Yup, home and dry and trying to just chill about the job situation.
Yes, they added me on their malpractice insurance policy. Yes, they love my work. Yes, they sent me flowers when I was sick. So no worries, right? But on the other hand, they're disorganized enough to use Macs for the office. So all their actions could be sound and fury.
Anyway, my sister tells me that what I've been feeling since I've been Lexapro is probably placebo effect. SSRI's usually take 6 weeks to be effective. Well, even if it placebo effect, I guess I'll take it--no highs or lows, just a rather dull average. Much like this entry.
For nonmedicated takes on the legal profession, take a gander over at Rufus' Running With Lawyers. The man has a legal gig that most lawyers dream of (well, next to being a porn lawyer)--in-house counsel. Why is this position so coveted by most lawyers? Because you get to boss the same type of jerkoff partners who were screwing with your life as an associate, plus you get to have a life.
Today I'm doing my best impression of me my senior year at Duke on a rainy day. Joy Division is playing in the background. I got my halogen lamp at max lighting in my bedroom. I'm reading while listening to the rain, doing my best to to ignore whatever the future holds.
For the first time in my life, I am taking medication for depression. I know, this is a surprise for most of you in a "you mean you weren't on medication before" way, you bastards. But with health issues, Her leaving me and a slowdown at work, I needed to do something.
Lexapro--sounds like a legal research software. Like prozac, Lexapro is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI). Serotonin, to put it in layman's terms, makes you happy. Block the reuptake of serotonin, the more serotonin there is flowing in the brain. The more serotonin in the brain, the happier you are. Theoretically. Anyway, Lexapro is supposedly different from prozac in the lexapro is more geared to depression. If prozac is coke, Lexapro is coffee.
So what does Day One in Better Living Through Chemistry feels like? It doesn't feel like it's 72 degrees in my brain. My first thought is numb, but that's not accurate. I don't feel lethargic or melancholy. My heart still feels sad, but it's like it's not my heart. I also react normally around people--I smile when I speak; I'm articulate. But inside me, it feels like there's not really a me, that I'm on auto-pilot. Maybe this is a placebo effect. It is the first day after all. Maximum benefit takes 4 to 6 weeks. But I feel like what a clinical psychiatrist would characterize as a light disassociative effect. I'm taking a break from myself.
I want instant karma to exist. None of this "Well when she's thirty she'll realize she made a mistake" bullshit. None of this wistful looking back as found in TV melodramas with the actors in bad elderly makeup looking back at their youthful indiscretions bullshit. None of this slo-mo justice that won't directly matter to you by the time karma hits (IF it hits) bullshit.
I want karma to hit fast and hit hard. I want every cruelty punished before a teardrop can hit the ground. I want every injustice corrected before the heart turns bitter.
I might as well wish for peace, love and understanding and threeway with hot swedish twins while I'm at it.
"When I say I'm tired, you see, I don't just mean that I'm tired. I have this disease. It's nothing new; people have had it for centuries. You know when you've got nothing in particular to do, nothing to stay awake for? When your life is just routine and it doesn't feel like it belongs to you, how you feel tired and sad and listless and everything seems like too much effort? Well, it's like that, but much worse, because everything is much worse these days." -- Stark from Only Forward by Michael Marshall Smith
All the cases from the latest ContractGig got pushed back, so the last thing the permanents want to do is give work to the contract guy, no matter how funny, talented and wicked smart the contract guy is. She walked out of my life to "explore" a week ago--and no, being told that I'm the first man to ever make Her feel like a woman is not any consolation. Not having much to do and no one to go home to is NOT a good combination.
I know, be proactive! Put on a smile and open your heart to the world! You're free, my man, free! And I'm trying. Hey, back on the saddle on Match and Okcupid! But there's only so many e-mails you can send out to so many profiles, and let's face it, I don't know a soul who as met the one who stops the world for them on these sites.
Unfortunately, even though I'd rather keep writing about my broken heart and whatnot, I know whinging gets really tired really fast. And since I can't drink alcohol (well, not as much as I used to) because of the high blood pressure, I might need some assistance from the wonderful pharmaceutical industry. Maybe get some Prozac, perhaps some Xanax as well. Better living through chemistry!
No caffeine for me today, I have a nuclear stress test tomorrow! That entails the hospital injecting me with a radioactive isotope twice--once at rest, and then once on a treadmill with gamma x-rays being directed at me both times. This is done so they can see whether there are any heart issues I should be crappin' in my pants about.
I'm really hoping for some gnarly superpowers from the all that radiation, like:
1. To make people get what they deserve and not what they want (ha ha red states-no more pork barrel for you parasitic fuckers);
2. To make women fucking wet when they meet a nice and decent guy;
3. Super novel writing ability;
4. To know what love is (I just put that in there to make you readers have Foreigner run through your heads all day, so suffer);
5. Flying (d'uh).