I’m searching for the way out of this blue funk. Since the FAA in their infinite wisdom has lumped drugs like Prozac, Zoloft, and Wellbutrin in the same category as LSD (the “mind altering drug” category), those types of treatment are all out of the question unless I want to quit flying. Then you’ll see me depressed. So I start looking around at bulletin boards and newsgroups on the subject. Sadly, there is nothing in between “I am completely out of my gourd and am taking five psychoactive drugs just to keep my toes (which I have named) from attacking me, so excuse me while my third testicle sings me to sleep.” And the other extreme; “I hate chemicals, everyone who depends on chemicals for well being is evil and hateful and that is why I drive a soy powered car.” None of which I would call reliable information. The former group was just scary to read about, and made me feel lucky to have a disorder that seems mild by comparison. I have never once been afraid of part of my own body (except that time I saw the back of my balls in a full length mirror while getting dressed, and I was fine once I stopped crying). The latter group was a bunch of tree hugging hippies who should take the pine cones out of their asses long enough to understand that hugs and bean sprouts don’t make the world go around. It’s all about greed and red meat, bitches. That’s why you live in a van and I don’t.

Social agendas aside, I read a bunch of high-IQ medical reports and “independent studies” about all kinds of herbal and semi herbal treatments. Stuff like Kava Kava, St. John’s ingrown toenail, Raccoon glandular squeezings, and so on. Most of it had the rather underwhelming results I expected from a bunch of plant/animal extracts. This supports my belief that we should burn the rainforests and put up smoothie huts and hobby shops, but that’s another entry that I will never write.

The one OTC depression remedy that seems to have the most friendly reviews and lowest number of deaths associated with it is Sam-e. It lists minor side effects like Flaming diarrhea, freeze vision, the ability to breathe underwater, sudden urge to dance, inability to speak or breathe, and spontaneous combustion. Most of these side effects could be lot of fun for dirty uncle Dusty, so I’ll probably give it a shot.

Then, like a message from God (assuming God does mass mailings), an offer for a new, untested drug that makes you feel euphoric forever! Seriously. Right there in my junk mail folder between “Re: hot schoolgirl slutmonkeys take it in every hole”, and “friend, would you like to earn $24,000 a day by reading your e-mail?” It was easy to spot this gem among the 65 junk mail messages I have received today, because I knew that I hadn’t inquired about schoolgirl slutmonkeys, so the “Re:” at the beginning wasn’t fooling me, and a mere $24,000 a day is nothing compared to the $40,000 a day I get just for breathing. Upon opening the happy pill email (which came from someone named “a doctor”, and therefore must be valid), I was assaulted by an animated advertisement for pornography. I won’t go into the gory details, but suffice to say I was offended at the thought that one can actually view porn on the internet (who knew?), and even more so by the fact that it would apparently make you feel euphoric forever. Don’t they know that you’ll go blind from doing that sort of thing? As a recovering palm shaver rescued from the dangers of self-pleasuring, I can say without reservation that hairy palms do not equal euphoria. It’s in all the new math books.

As you may have figured out, I think I have turned the corner on this latest battle with the mullygrubs. This morning I woke up, having slept with my ear all folded over and now sticking out at an odd angle, scratched, stretched, and rubbed, and staggered my way to the shower wondering who glued my left eye shut and crapped in my mouth while I was asleep. While I was in the shower I got shampoo in my unglued eye, which hurt like hell. The same guy who molested me in my sleep had also replaced my shampoo with acid and glass shards. I screamed like a girl and got slightly tangled in the shower curtain while groping for my towel. Once that pain was over, I had to put conditioner in my eye so it wouldn’t be all frizzy the whole day. That hurt too. When I got out of the shower (the left eye was now unglued, but the right one was still burning as it shed its outer membrane), I stood in front of the mirror, unshaven, one eye closed and the other weeping, ear extended ay a jaunty angle, and laughed. Everything is going to be okay. I’m not dying, my job is good, I have everything I want, the rear driver’s side tire on my car is low, and life is very livable. A friend of mine described that feeling as the “revelation” that she wished she could bottle up and keep around to remind you that it’s not really as bad as it seems.

To everyone who left me notes, offered help, or just managed to be around me without killing me during this crappy episode, I thank you. And thanks in advance for next time.

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