6 November 2013
1458 hrs
Dear and Patient Readers:
Forgive
me for the dearth of postings as of late.
Long study nights and long school days are just blurring together like
so much sludge. I am not getting
anywhere near enough sleep, not that I ever did, so I don’t really know what to
do about that.
I
went and saw a Pshrink yesterday. These
first-time appointments are like job interviews. Not so much for me getting a job, but I like
to make sure my doc knows what the
fuck. Am I right? The bad thing is, whenever I go over my
history, you know, the PTSD and its terrible causes; the Mood-Swing set in the
brain’s backyard trip that is Bipolar Disorder; the beatings and the burnings
and the thrashing of our minds each time we face our own alcoholic and insane
parents, and then struggle vainly to not become our very own insane alcoholic
version of them . . . How violence
always seemed the solution to all things not assuaged by mental and
psychological cruelty . . . and how inescapable it is-how impossible it is to
separate yourself from your abuser.
Man,
I go over and over that trip with the long questionnaire . . . Have
you ever been abused? How often do you
have dark thoughts, or racing ones, or hallucinations both auditory and visual
. . . Tactile, too? Ah . . . the trifecta. Congrats, you get the corner of the oval
padded room . . .
How many bodies, exactly, are in
your crawlspace?
Extremely personal questions like those. And how do you answer these? Truthfully and with great shame? Or do you answer dishonestly and hope that
the provider gets it right, that you actually get the help you need and you
want her to take her Psychic Pill first thing every AM because dammit! You just want to fucking get well . . .
Well,
I have to choose the honesty format. As
you can probably tell, I am swinging downward through the depressive phase of
my cycle. I take the goodies, the
Skittles, the mood stabilizers that we are all should be taking. Hey, they sure beat the booze, which is what
I used for years, not realizing that being inside my head was really all in my
head. I didn’t like being there, inside
the Old Noodle. It was full of
grotesqueries and phantasms that beckon from Abysses and Chasms far too
terrifying to venture into. There were
enough horrors in the real world, let alone the things My Terrible Mind could
conjure.
So
these wonderful, poorly efficacious meds that keep me from pulling peoples’
heads off . . . well, sometimes, in certain situations, I find them
lacking. Sometimes in their failings, I
can see through the hole in the floor of my mind, down into the oubliette wherein
I place things so very dark and unholy . . .
Jesus! I just realized what the
hell I’ve been saying so far in this blog.
I’m like Goth Eeyore listening to Cradle of Filth while I wear my burlap
shirt and self-flagellate as I masturbate with OO steel wool. Except gloomy-like.
Sorry
about that. I only went there, into the
Dank Swampy Recesses of my Mi- oh . .
. Sorry.
I just
wanted to illustrate for you how it is I feel whenever I see a new
Pshrink. I am shopping around- not in
the drug-seeker tweaker sort of way they go Pshrink Shopping, but just to make
sure I find one who is a perfect fit. I
am new to this cloudy, wet burg, and I only hope that I find one before the
nights get too long. And the creatures
of Cthulean Dimensions enter my dreams tentacularly and spirit me away to their
obscene- Jesus . . . OK . . . Deep breath . . .
Being
reminded of just how crazy you are is seemingly counterintuitive. Dealing with the horrors of which you are the
Mighty Sum can get pretty fucking dreary.
Just a-ventin’ here, folks . . .
And thank you all, Patient Readers, for putting up with this Crazy
Fennec Fox.
If y’all
find my rants or my poems or my short stories worth reading, tell your
friends. If you find them droll or
obnoxious or strained pieces of shit, tell your friends that, too.
You
know we are all broken, each one of us.
I have no illusions that I am the only one, pity poor me. Yet I do not seek you, Patient Reader, I do
not require that you repair me. I am, as
too many of us are, far beyond repair.
Our own Samsara is shattered, our souls comminuted into hellish and
ghastly critters, unrecognizable as once being human at all.
But you
don’t need my help any more than I need yours.
I’m
not here to heal anyone. Christ knows I
spent too many years trying to do just that.
I wanted the puzzle more, and if solving that healed you or your kid or
your mom or sister, so be it. Great. I’m your fucking hero until I am not. Then what?
I still move on and you still move on and we wend and weave our weary
ways, weeping. The puzzles were
everything. They were the root: You
solve the puzzle then the person on the other end of that gets better, or at
least go to WebMD and see what it is exactly that is killing them.
Want
me to hold your kid’s hand and there
there them until the sight of me makes them hate you? Fuck You, Parent. That’s your fucking job. Let me go about fixing whatever the fuck is
wrong with the little shit so she can cure fucking cancer or embezzle hundreds
of dollars from the contractor she will keep the books for in ten years.
Let me
determine what neurological deficit is plaguing your noisy and sticky kid
before it gets really serious, and the world is deprived of yet another Walter
Payton or John Wayne Gacy.
Let me
order tests your insurance won’t cover so that glioblastoma multiforme that is growing in your head like a
sinister potato under the sink, sprouting tendrils that infiltrate the surrounding
healthy tissues and are committing angiogenesis while your insurance company
denies your claim long enough that the only division that pays is the one that
sends your spouse the fucking life-insurance policy. Let’s hate ObamaCare (Not a pejorative in my
book) because he’s black and racists fucking rule like anarchy rules. Figure that oxymoron out, Patient Reader.
People
suck, suck really hard and will
continue to do so until we do what needs doing and kill the planet once and for
all. Yet the Earth is tough, isn’t
she? Goddam right she is. And life, on the grandest scale at least,
struggles to assert itself. Life won’t
become extinct. I just cannot wait until
we humans do. Be the best thing for this
planet we piss away daily.
So no,
none you need to fix me, just as I no longer need to fix any of you. Either you like these Bipolar Rants or you don’t;
and you either give a fuck about my blog or you don’t; or you just don’t and
you don’t and you don’t . . . or you do.
I’m
crazy as a shithouse mouse, most of the time, and I know it. It’s what keeps me interested (interesting?). But whether or not you find my words
disturbing or soothing; madness or melancholy; they are of my own gray matter,
the only matter that matters.
So be
well, Patient Reader. I think I will go
take some meds before I climb a tower with a rifle. More to follow and soon, Patient Reader. It really is good to see you again, to see
you keep coming back for more of the rants.
More writings
are to come, I promise. I have to tell
you about my friend Fonda and how she had a wonderful heart but broken lungs .
. . until she was lucky enough to happen
upon me.
Look
for that and more over the next few weeks.
Until then, Pax Vobiscum.
The
Crazy-as-a-shithouse-mouse Cunning Fennec Fox
No comments:
Post a Comment