I know a brilliant blogger who calls herself Blahpolar. I know a lot of brilliant bloggers and I follow a few and wish I had time and stamina to follow and read many more of your blogs. But in addition to becoming a personal hero and the obvious object of my long-distance affection for offering me alcohol served, in copious quantities, a little tiny serving at a time, Ms Blahpolar is a fucking genius and has inspired me. In a moment of something that may be the beginning of a mild-mannered manic phase for this superhero, I, The DM, have followed not just by reading Blahpolar’s blog, but actually followed her lead by reading a bit more about what is wrong with me. Don’t take my word for it, I’m a medical non-professional and I don’t know shit about shit.
I’m not medicated because I don’t want doctors offering electroconvulsive therapy I can’t afford, bullshit psychosocial therapy I can’t afford, other bullshit therapies somewhere in between, or bullshit medications I can’t afford, that give back by giving me impotence and fucking with my brain and turning brain and liver into Swiss cheese and making me grow green horns and purple dragon scales and having even worse chronic insonia and stomach issues. I also don’t need certain religious people telling me to “just” change, as if it were like flipping a fucking lightswitch. No thank you. You medical professionals can keep on “practicing” medicine until you get it fucking right. And you semi-religious individuals and religious “professionals” can all pray. Harder. Please. “I don’t think whoever you’re praying to is listening, perhaps he’s sleeping, or relieving himself in the bathroom.” (Elijah, I Kings 18:27)
If you have been too depressed to read lately, if you only read uplifting things, or if you think my writing is shit unworthy of your time, well then you’ve missed out on my mental and emotional sine wave going into y equals less than zero territory.
But my research today gave me a few bitter laughs. I’ve actually tried to track this emotional trend this time. The articles tell me that although my less than zero phase feels like forever it’s only supposed to last two months. I think it’s actually something like between three and four months, because I can’t even do cyclothymia right.
It did some good though. For two reasons. First, it said I shouldn’t be in this low cycle too much longer, and second, it proved I was right. At least I’m not trying to just medicate the downside of the wave, as suggested by another certain medical non-professional, which I’ve now read can have counterproductive impacts-it “can induce mood switching, cycle acceleration, mixed states and prolonged treatment resistance.” (Parker, Gordon; McCraw, Stacey; Fletcher, Kathryn (2012) Cyclothymia Depression and Anxiety 29 (6): 487–494) That’s right, a doctor who only hears about the depression can fuck me up worse than not taking anything at all. Again, no thank you.
I’ll stick to moderate self-medication when I feel like I really need it. Thank you, Blahpolar, for your constant encouragement, your brilliant research, and for the promise of …well, you know, Ms. Blah. And the promise of “you know” gives me hope. It might be false hope, (I admit it is that exactly, for reasons you’ll see below) but it’s hope just the same. Until then, that other medical non-professional, whom I also affectionately regard as “the Mrs,” and I will moderately self-medicate together, or alone along with George Thorogood and The Destroyers and all of his other old friends.