Note to self: It might be the human condition. Do not seek medication.
Yes, like all wimpy moderns I decided I wanted a safe bridge over that river o' dread one must cross quite frequently in life.
Wading through is exhausting. So I medicated. I tampered with brain chemistry in such a way the deep injustice and horror of the universe wouldn't be so very apparent. I took the easy way out, alright? Shoot me!
My main theory--If you read my many excuses you will see my general theory about the behavior it is most advisable to display in the modern world is: Appear Efficient and Productive.
This isn't a beneficial 'win friends and influence people.' That was optional advice to climb even higher on the ladder. This is necessary: Keep one's middle class ass in the middle class sling of professionalism. Without that cheery facade (OK, in my case it was a facade, maybe you really are efficient) say hello to the lower depths of the economic slag heap. Only those without major, major trust funds can afford to be moody or outraged or traumatized. The rest of us who live on the edge where we still have health insurance are forced to be amusing and reassuringly content with our lot in life.
I'm not all that unamusing or discontented. At least not all the time. Yet, I know I can be. I wanted that extra biochemical reassurance. I wanted to know my brain chemistry wouldn't fail me. I wanted to make sure I didn't say things like "We're doomed" etc. around those who outrank me in the hierarchy and so decide my fate.
I wanted to make people laugh. In the past, this has been a great help to me. My ability to be charming and humorous is the main way I got one of those jobs with benefits. One of the main ways I'm still in the upper echelons and needn't hang my head in shame in our status crazed society.
I was afraid to take chance with my good luck. So I did a little seratonin tampering.
Yeah, yeah. I've read the lame ass Harper's articles about how we should not take Prozac (not what I was on by the way) so we can all be Dostoevsky. Whatever. Sure, it's great to be Dostoevsky 100 years from now. When you are dead. But being Dostoevsky when you are in your early thirties (and lack his talent) is a one way ticket to scanning bar codes. Or worse.
My commercial for these drugs is: Economics--Ya can't beat it. Ya gotta join it. And SSRI's make it all possible.
Anyone who has read this bla bla knows that I am painfully aware of our imminent destruction, etc. I'm not just la-de-da no matter how many SSRI's or whatever other drugs I manage to get my hands on. I'm still obsessed with evil and death but just a little more able to distract myself and appear to enjoy life.
I didn't need this help until I hit the professional scene. Back in college, my moody and confused vibe drew a number of people. The cool people. They liked it that I seemed to toy with the idea of suicide. I remember my super beautiful cool friend (model...in magazines...dating Red Hot Chili Peppers). I said to her after a night of debauchery: "If people were looking at us right now they'd think we were having a lot of fun." I remember her saying "We are having a lot of fun." My inability to have fun somehow made me popular back in the day...
But ya can't count on that. Interesting idiosyncrasies have to be tempered with normalcy after a certain period in life.
In fact, I wanted not to make a commercial but to make a public service announcement: I'm going off these drugs. Phew! I've never felt so horrible. Not mentally, physically. It was 9 months ago I ran this experiment on my brain. Who would have thought that something they advertise in women's magazines and on TV could make you so ill? Honestly, if I didn't discover through the internet what all doctors forget to tell you (or seem not to know) that this sort of thing makes you feel so so so crappy I would never have guessed. I thought I might have some sort of heavy metal poisoning.
Hey, who put mercury in my orange juice?
I'd suggest you take your chances with moodiness and outrage over stupidity and injustice breaking out when around the higher ups or those you must impress. Really. I dreamed that Marie Antoinette was haunting me and woke up screaming. I dreamed my husband and I stole money, the person we stole it from was murdered and then we had to hide the body. The mob, the white supremacists and the FBI were all looking for us. I've had about 20 nightmares in the last 7 days. My poor chico can't sleep when he hears me yelling in my sleep.
Whatta mess. All 'cause I wanted to take the easy way out.
Yes, like all wimpy moderns I decided I wanted a safe bridge over that river o' dread one must cross quite frequently in life.
Wading through is exhausting. So I medicated. I tampered with brain chemistry in such a way the deep injustice and horror of the universe wouldn't be so very apparent. I took the easy way out, alright? Shoot me!
My main theory--If you read my many excuses you will see my general theory about the behavior it is most advisable to display in the modern world is: Appear Efficient and Productive.
This isn't a beneficial 'win friends and influence people.' That was optional advice to climb even higher on the ladder. This is necessary: Keep one's middle class ass in the middle class sling of professionalism. Without that cheery facade (OK, in my case it was a facade, maybe you really are efficient) say hello to the lower depths of the economic slag heap. Only those without major, major trust funds can afford to be moody or outraged or traumatized. The rest of us who live on the edge where we still have health insurance are forced to be amusing and reassuringly content with our lot in life.
I'm not all that unamusing or discontented. At least not all the time. Yet, I know I can be. I wanted that extra biochemical reassurance. I wanted to know my brain chemistry wouldn't fail me. I wanted to make sure I didn't say things like "We're doomed" etc. around those who outrank me in the hierarchy and so decide my fate.
I wanted to make people laugh. In the past, this has been a great help to me. My ability to be charming and humorous is the main way I got one of those jobs with benefits. One of the main ways I'm still in the upper echelons and needn't hang my head in shame in our status crazed society.
I was afraid to take chance with my good luck. So I did a little seratonin tampering.
Yeah, yeah. I've read the lame ass Harper's articles about how we should not take Prozac (not what I was on by the way) so we can all be Dostoevsky. Whatever. Sure, it's great to be Dostoevsky 100 years from now. When you are dead. But being Dostoevsky when you are in your early thirties (and lack his talent) is a one way ticket to scanning bar codes. Or worse.
My commercial for these drugs is: Economics--Ya can't beat it. Ya gotta join it. And SSRI's make it all possible.
Anyone who has read this bla bla knows that I am painfully aware of our imminent destruction, etc. I'm not just la-de-da no matter how many SSRI's or whatever other drugs I manage to get my hands on. I'm still obsessed with evil and death but just a little more able to distract myself and appear to enjoy life.
I didn't need this help until I hit the professional scene. Back in college, my moody and confused vibe drew a number of people. The cool people. They liked it that I seemed to toy with the idea of suicide. I remember my super beautiful cool friend (model...in magazines...dating Red Hot Chili Peppers). I said to her after a night of debauchery: "If people were looking at us right now they'd think we were having a lot of fun." I remember her saying "We are having a lot of fun." My inability to have fun somehow made me popular back in the day...
But ya can't count on that. Interesting idiosyncrasies have to be tempered with normalcy after a certain period in life.
In fact, I wanted not to make a commercial but to make a public service announcement: I'm going off these drugs. Phew! I've never felt so horrible. Not mentally, physically. It was 9 months ago I ran this experiment on my brain. Who would have thought that something they advertise in women's magazines and on TV could make you so ill? Honestly, if I didn't discover through the internet what all doctors forget to tell you (or seem not to know) that this sort of thing makes you feel so so so crappy I would never have guessed. I thought I might have some sort of heavy metal poisoning.
Hey, who put mercury in my orange juice?
I'd suggest you take your chances with moodiness and outrage over stupidity and injustice breaking out when around the higher ups or those you must impress. Really. I dreamed that Marie Antoinette was haunting me and woke up screaming. I dreamed my husband and I stole money, the person we stole it from was murdered and then we had to hide the body. The mob, the white supremacists and the FBI were all looking for us. I've had about 20 nightmares in the last 7 days. My poor chico can't sleep when he hears me yelling in my sleep.
Whatta mess. All 'cause I wanted to take the easy way out.
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