05 October, 2011

Withdraw, Wal-Mart Ottomans, And Long Fingernails

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Withdrawal, Wal-Mart Ottomans, And Long Fingernails
I have to cut my fingernails. That information is of no consequence to anyone, but I needed a place to start today. My brain is a bit scattered, and this blog will probably explore why and also possibly make no sense. Remember when I wrote angry stories about the mod community? I need to get back to that. But today is a scattered brain day, so we’ll probably just stick to the scattered brain thing. I’ll make it mod related. Or at least I’ll try. What a waste this opening paragraph is.
Let’s talk about who we are and who we aren’t. Let’s talk about what makes us the us that we think we are, and what makes us the us that we think other people think we are. Holy pronouns. Let’s talk about stress and jewelry and tattoos and makeup and drugs and motivations and disappointments. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it. What are we, and what makes that the we that we are. That’s what we’re talking about.
Here’s where all this comes from. I’m crazy. You cats and kittens know that. I have a longer list of diagnosis than OCD kids have of routines that need to be done before they can leave the house. I would like to believe that we all have a touch of the lunacy, but I know that isn’t entirely true. Sure, everyone has quirks, but there is this amorphous and imaginary line that can be crossed where one goes from quirky to crazy. Some of us cross that line more willingly than others. Or not so much willingly as freely. I have gone, in my thirty-one years, from quirkiness to insanity. Which is fine; we deal with it, work with it, go with it. The problems come when working with it becomes a difficult thing to do. Then you get pills.
Lots and lots of pills. Pills of all shapes and sizes. Capsules and tablets and liquids and suppositories for some of you adventurous types. My scattered brain thing is a result of the pill thing. Not suppositories. I don’t do those. Pills. Capsules of sanity encased by dead animal bone all designed to make me behave as society would better receive me. Which is fine. Some people need a bit of lab-created sanity and happiness. The problems come with the ensuing addiction tethered to the pill taking.
Due to a fuck up at the pharmacist and the shrink’s office, I was without my Effexor for five days. Effexor is an antidepressant. It is some hardcore shit too. For those who know about Effexor, you know that missing one dose can quickly and vividly start the withdrawal symptoms. That’s what happened to me this week without my drugs. If you’ve ever seen the movie “Ray,” there’s the bit where he’s detoxing from the junk he was taking. Shaking and sweating and hallucinating and hearing things and just a mess. That’s kind of what it is like. I don’t remember a lot from this week, but I do remember the coming down, and it’s not fun.
How this relates to anything is this. I’m addicted to a thing that is designed to help me. I think we all have those things, but the irony of addiction to a helpful thing is very true. Some of us are addicts of working out, of vitamins, of the History channel. Good things that are designed to help or edify become a demonic thing in their absence. Not that I’m comparing Effexor withdrawal to missing the awful “Ancient Aliens” conspiracy propaganda on  History channel, but you get the idea. Some of us even use modification like this. How dangerous is this, if at all?
I tend to qualify and give free passes. Strange thing for me to do, since my sense of order and right and wrong tends to be very black and white. But I look onto a cat like The Enigma, and then I compare him to a cat like… well, that cat guy. I don’t know his name, but you’ve all seen him. He has sharpened teeth, silicone implants to provide a hare lip, whisker labrets, long fingernails, and cat oriented tattoos. In my unfair qualification of each, The Enigma gets a pass. He’s a performer, an intelligent man who has modified heavily. I don’t know him personally, but I’d like to. The cat guy who thinks he’s a cat strives to be a cat, and uses modification to more closely arrive at that goal. The qualification occurs in their mindsets. The cat guy may have a touch of the loony tunes, and that is not a judgement on his modification behavior so much as it is a commentary on his perception of what he is attempting to achieve. You kids know that I support any form of modification as it helps to realize the modified person’s comfort and serves his beauty. Therefore, I support the cat guy’s transformation from that point of view. However, what makes it seem like he’s had a bit too many of Mr. Graham’s crackers is his sense of self beyond the modifications. Dude thinks he’s a cat. The Enigma doesn’t think he’s a… umm… Puzzle? Better, the Lizardman doesn’t think he’s a lizard in the same full on way that the cat guy thinks he’s a (cheap joke alert) pussy. Cat. Perhaps, keeping with the addiction idea, the cat guy is addicted to the sense of transformation, that he must continue to modify his body and his behavior to feed this addiction to aspiration to become a feline man thing.
Part of the question is, as well, is the needlessly heady idea of the guy at the party alone. Everyone outside of the party knows that there is no party, but the guy inside the party dances with his paper cone hat and noise blowy thing all alone having a blast. Could everyone else be wrong? Is the majority idea the one that dictates real, or is it the idea that what is real is real regardless of how real the real is. Really. Here’s the word real again. Maybe he really is a cat and we all don’t know it, is what I’m saying. Maybe the addiction (here’s where it relates) is the real thing and the withdrawal is the imaginary. Maybe I’m not hearing women’s voices while coming off of Effexor. Or maybe there’s a woman standing in my blind spot all the time and she just decided to say something today after thirty-one years.
I’m muddying up the point, I know, but my right side is still kind of numb from not having my pills so there’s that. If I have a stroke, it’s been nice writing for you. Sense of self in terms of the positive things to which we are addicted which are designed to help us. That’s what I was talking about. Once we realize our addiction is a real thing, like when you start scratching and acting irritable from not having that pill or doing that thing that you think you need to do in order to have a good and productive day, then we see that we are a thing separate to the symptoms. We are not the addiction. We are not the shakes or the twitches. We are not the depression. We aren’t even the new thing we’ve created through modification. We are the thing that participates in these behaviors as a part of our selves. These things are the regalia, the rosetta, the extra flourish that makes what they are on a different thing. And we are different, aren’t we. At the end of the day, the ‘we’ who are addicted to the anything, the pills or the mods or the exercise or the whatever, are the ‘we’ first and the addicted we second. Addiction is an odd word with negative connotation, but to say that I’m not addicted to antidepressants is incorrect. And one of the clear symptoms of that addiction is this nonsense rant I put together for you kids today.
We should always serve the we within our we. And before we have a chance to make a wee wee joke, I’ll move on. The we beneath the person we think we are is beautiful and peaceful. He is silence and calm, interesting and intelligent, learned and eager to teach. We forget that he is there sometimes. Like the times you go to Wal-Mart to get an ottoman and just as you’re ready to pick it up, some twenty-something scene kid and his future abortion owner slut girlfriend swoop in and take it from you so you go to three other Wal-Marts in order to find the same ottoman but it’s actually a special item so none of them have it and you rage and hate over the ottoman that almost was. Or some such scenario. We forget the peaceful and beautiful person beneath that Wal-Mart Ottoman rage. But he’s there, and he comes back to hang out after you stop developing death scenarios for the ottoman thieves. I’m going to stop writing now because the right side of my face feels funny. I’ll write something more cohesive next week; I promise. Stay beautiful, kids.

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1 comment:

  1. You're good people. You see what others do not, and I'm not sure why. Not only that, but you're able to articulate it into a somewhat meaningful form which others may understand. My personal experiences allow me to relate to (most of) what you're bringing to this table. I take Prozac and have long enough to understand the freedom of emotional movement. I've also been, on a couple of scary occasions, so disconnected that something as simple as a bit of menial small talk wouldn't land anywhere in my mind so that I could understand it.

    The most important thing I gather from this though, is that you should look for another medication. I know what antidepressants open mentally. It's great to function with emotional balance like a "regular" person. However, the withdraw that you seem to experience I'm guessing is fairly dangerous.

    Now that I've said that, I forget why I'm commenting in the first place, so I shall wish you well.