Off The Rails
August 04, 2004
No advice column today. I may postpone it until tomorrow, or it might take a little hiatus and run away with the 'ku.
I've made some light-hearted references to The Crazy and the Brain Doctor and la la la, Amalah's feeling a little blue and stressed. Prozac is the new Flintstones Vitamin, no big deal, she's FINE. FINE FINE FINE.
Am not fine. Am dirty liar.
I'm not going into details. < insert standard "people in real life read this" boilerplate here > I'm not going to spend a lot of time writing about it. In fact, I'll probably just refer to the whole situation as "It" a lot and gloss over It entirely for weeks at a time. La la la.
But I thought you should know a few things.
1) No advice column today. Check.
2) I am still hilarious when I'm depressed. Sometimes even more so. Please don't leave me. Please don't find someone new. Especially someone younger and prettier. I would cry. Don't walk out that door! I am still talking to you! Baby, don't goooo!
3) I'm more than just depressed. Everybody's depressed. I need to be special...to stand out in the crowd. Am star! Thus, I have Other Problems besides/in addition to/on top of It. I probably won't talk about Them either.
4) But these Other Problems require some serious mood stabilizers. Which make me feel like shit. Stable shit, but still. Shit.
5) I cannot, under any circumstances, get pregnant while on these drugs. My doctor literally held the prescription over her head and wouldn't hand it to me until I promised promised promised to go back on birth control, cross my heart and hope to not die in a depressed and moody puddle.
6) I will be on these drugs for a minimum of nine months. Nine. Months. Minimum. Ouch. Just...ouch. Right in the heart. The length of a pregnancy. At least. At this rate, my next-door neighbors will have a goddamn softball team by the time I have one. (And yes, it's totally a competition. I have to beat the spread in Vegas. Shut up.)
So. This is where I'm at. Fucked-up ovaries, fucked-up brain, fucked-up plans and now a seriously fucked-up entry that I'll probably regret posting instantly. Luckily I changed the title from the original, which was "Off the Baby Train, On the Crazy Train." I am happy about this, because that? Was awful.
(SIDE NOTE TO ALL REAL-LIFE PEOPLE: You never read this. I don't care if you read this, I'm telling you now, YOU NEVER READ THIS. The first person to walk into my office or whatever who makes a concerned frowny face and asks if I'm okay? Dies. As will anyone else. I do NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOU. Yes, you. Capiche?)
Ain't I a peach? Don't you want to take me shopping and give me big hugs?