State of the Machine

Me, me, me. It’s all about me. This post, that is. Generally speaking, I’m not terribly interested in being verbally self-absorbed. But some people out there deserve to know what’s going on, and what’s been going on, and I need to put it out there so that I can move on.

Basically I had a little breakdown. I say little because the last time this happened to me, it was much, much worse. Like, lay on my floor for three days straight crying, lose fifteen pounds worse. This time I had a clue as to what was happening, and prepared as best I could (read: got my prescription filled and took the nasty tasting little white pills faithfully). This has allowed me to cope much better than last time. Better is a relative term, however.

I still suffered some serious panic/anxiety attacks, and was subject to some irrational behavior. I still felt like I was tossed down an oubliette. I was still hellishly unpleasant to be around for those nearest and dearest. And I still flaked out on responsibilities. Badly. And I am still not out of the woods. But I am better, and it could have been worse. Much worse.

The scary thing about clinical depression is that those who suffer don’t look any different while they are suffering. They aren’t walking around with a big cast or a bleeding wound. There is no outward physical sign or symptom that they are grappling with something that is as debilitating as any disease you care to name. People find it difficult to understand and react appropriately. The urge is to tell the sufferer to ‘snap out of it’ or ‘shake it off’. They would if they could. Believe me. And if they’re acting like an asshole in some form or fashion that is different from their normal disposition, guess what? They aren’t doing it on purpose just to annoy/hurt you. It’s not about you. That bears repeating, actually: It’s Not About You. So try not to take it personally. Please.

Oh, and as for therapy, I thank those who suggested it, but I did that the first round. I’m not saying it wasn’t helpful, but there’s a law of diminishing returns. The issue is really mostly chemical and hereditary. My inner demons are pretty much pipsqueaks nowadays.

So where is the Machine at? I would say he’s at about 70%, maybe a little better. The sound of a ringing hand phone still makes his flesh crawl, but he no longer has (much of) an urge to drop it in the toilet and flush, or smash it against the wall. And except for this creepy new prediliction to speak in third person, his future outlook is generally sunny with scattered showers. Now I just need a prescription that doesn’t taste like a cross between licorice and mule sweat.

I hate licorice.