I was just over at my dear friend Madge's blog. She wrote about depression today, and how going off the Crazy pills cold turkey is a bad idea. Poor thing! Girls, we all sympathize with her don't we? Because – and I'm being totally honest here -- those of us that suffer from a case of the chronic Crazies have all been in Madge's shoes. For one reason or another we have a lapse in judgment and think we don't need the Crazy pills anymore or either we have a mishap and forget to take them or pick up our refill. And then IT happens. If you don't know what IT is, then you clearly don't have a real, deep case of the Crazy. If you do know what I'm talking about, then you're sitting there shaking your head and thinking of the last time you went off the meds. (Also, I'm betting there's a 30 percent chance that your last episode corresponded with a holiday of some form. Christmas is the holiday of choice to go batshit in my family. That's why I have a special, enhanced version of the Crazy pills. I call it the Holiday Dose.)
But, as I am one to do, I digress.
While I've got your attention and before the voices in my head start distracting me, I'd like to share with you my last bout with forgetting to take my Crazy pills. It's not something I've written about before, but I think enough time has passed that rage and nutso behavior that accompanies the memory of this event has subsided. It was just a little over three years ago. The husband and I had just been married a few months and we were getting used to living in Houston. Our dear friends were staying with us after they lost their home in Hurricane Katrina. Everyone's lives were a bit upside down. Emotions were high as it was and on this particular day – Oct. 9, 2005 – I forgot to take my Crazy pills.
I remember the date so clearly because it was the final game in the National League Championship series. The Houston Astros were playing the Atlanta Braves in game that would go down in history because of its 18 innings. The Aggie and I were originally supposed to go to the game the night before, but because of a ticket mix up we ended up going a day later – and to what had become a much more important game. We were rushed getting ready in time to make it for an earlier first pitch than we'd realized and in my scurrying around I forgot to take my meds. I didn't realize this, of course, until it was an hour later and the Aggie and I had pulled over into an empty parking garage to yell at each other. I don't recall about what, but I do remember saying things completely ridiculous like: YOU DON'T LOVE ME! And WHY DID YOU MARRY SUCH AN UGLY PERSON! You know, things that there is NO right response to.
Eventually we made it to the game and I'd settled down a bit. The Aggie was walking on eggshells trying to appease the beast that is my Crazy. He was doing everything perfect – offering me the better of the two phenomenal seats, going to get me a Diet Coke every two seconds, fanning me with the program, etc. He was doing so good – so perfect – until he went to grab us a snack. He made the mistake of bringing us back footlong hotdogs. Instantly I wrinkled my nose and the color drained from his face. You'd thought he had just served me shit on a platter of turds. The poor man remained optimistic as he tried to hand me the offending hotdog. Rather than take it from him, I pushed him away, causing him to dump is $7 beer and screeched: YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL. I HATE HOT DOGS! Which isn't even a true statement, people. But in that moment I believe I hated them and that my husband had just tried to hurt my feelings by offering me a wiener.
You could say that things were pretty low for us at this point. The Astros were in a slump and it looked like they were going to lose, I was a basket case and the poor Aggie was just beside himself. What had seemed like such a good idea and fun adventure had taken a horrible turn. What's worse is the Astros weren't just going ahead and dying gracefully. No! They were hanging on, gripping wildly toward survival. I began hoping they'd just hurry up and walk toward the light, if you know what I mean. Finally in the 16th inning my butt hurt so bad from sitting for what felt like 12 hours, that I demanded my husband take me home. When I made this request, a hush fell around us. People were all looking at me as if to say NO! DON'T MAKE HIM LEAVE. THIS IS CRUEL, EVEN FOR YOU. But because I had the Crazies, I just ignored the pleas of the entire ballpark and whined until the Aggie agreed to take me home.
As we walked the three or four blocks to the truck, the Aggie stopped suddenly when he heard the roar of fans from inside stadium. Something BIG had just happened and we'd just MISSED it because of ME. All the steadiness he'd managed to possess that entire day drained out of him. As our eyes locked I couldn't tell if he wanted to hug me, hit me or simply cry. Yet – and again I stress this was because of the Crazies – I ignored the warning signs and found it physically impossible to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT. I said something to the effect of, "Babe, my legs are really hurting are we close to the car?" But it didn't come out like that. It came out like this: OH MY GOD, I AM IN TERRIBLE AGONY AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOUR HORRIBLE MEAN MAN! HOW MUCH FURTHER TO THE TRUCK IS IT. I DON’T THINK I WILL MAKE IT! SEE, I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE LEFT SOONER. WHY ARE WE STILL HERE? YOU DON’T REALLY KNOW ME DO YOU!? AND YOU DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT ME EITHER?!?!
I don't really remember his response. I think I've blacked it out. It was the start of one of the worse fights of our marriage. And now that I’m fully medicated again I can honestly say: IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. The Crazies made me do it. The Aggie was so angry that by the time we got to the car and learned that the Astros had won by a walkoff homer from Brad Ausmus, he didn't even care anymore. I had just taken him away from one of the most historically significant games in baseball and there just weren't words to express this. We sat in silence for a moment as he tried to calm himself down enough to drive us home. And yet again I couldn't just SHUT UP. I had to have the last word, which turned out to be something along the lines of: JEEZ WHY ARE YOU SO MAD IT WAS JUST A STUPID BASEBALL GAME. Which caused my husband to slam in truck in reverse and rather than back out slowly careen wildly into the while Cadillac parked behind up.
Perfect. The perfectly crappy ending to a perfectly shitastic day. For the first time my super honest/super moral husband's life, he made a decision that probably saved my life. He simply put the truck in drive and drove away ignoring the damage to the car. (It was none to speak of, by the way. Just a small dent on the already dented fender. Plus they were illegally parked, so don't send us too much hate mail.)
As we drove home in silence, my husband reached over and took my hand. Then he uttered one question so softly that you'd had to listen carefully to hear it: "You didn't take your medicine today did you?"
"No," I admitted. "I forgot."
"Babe, don’t ever fucking to do that again, " he replied, squeezing my hand. Then he turned his attention back to the road and we hurried home.
And do you know what? I haven't ever fucking done that again.
But, as I am one to do, I digress.
While I've got your attention and before the voices in my head start distracting me, I'd like to share with you my last bout with forgetting to take my Crazy pills. It's not something I've written about before, but I think enough time has passed that rage and nutso behavior that accompanies the memory of this event has subsided. It was just a little over three years ago. The husband and I had just been married a few months and we were getting used to living in Houston. Our dear friends were staying with us after they lost their home in Hurricane Katrina. Everyone's lives were a bit upside down. Emotions were high as it was and on this particular day – Oct. 9, 2005 – I forgot to take my Crazy pills.
I remember the date so clearly because it was the final game in the National League Championship series. The Houston Astros were playing the Atlanta Braves in game that would go down in history because of its 18 innings. The Aggie and I were originally supposed to go to the game the night before, but because of a ticket mix up we ended up going a day later – and to what had become a much more important game. We were rushed getting ready in time to make it for an earlier first pitch than we'd realized and in my scurrying around I forgot to take my meds. I didn't realize this, of course, until it was an hour later and the Aggie and I had pulled over into an empty parking garage to yell at each other. I don't recall about what, but I do remember saying things completely ridiculous like: YOU DON'T LOVE ME! And WHY DID YOU MARRY SUCH AN UGLY PERSON! You know, things that there is NO right response to.
Eventually we made it to the game and I'd settled down a bit. The Aggie was walking on eggshells trying to appease the beast that is my Crazy. He was doing everything perfect – offering me the better of the two phenomenal seats, going to get me a Diet Coke every two seconds, fanning me with the program, etc. He was doing so good – so perfect – until he went to grab us a snack. He made the mistake of bringing us back footlong hotdogs. Instantly I wrinkled my nose and the color drained from his face. You'd thought he had just served me shit on a platter of turds. The poor man remained optimistic as he tried to hand me the offending hotdog. Rather than take it from him, I pushed him away, causing him to dump is $7 beer and screeched: YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL. I HATE HOT DOGS! Which isn't even a true statement, people. But in that moment I believe I hated them and that my husband had just tried to hurt my feelings by offering me a wiener.
You could say that things were pretty low for us at this point. The Astros were in a slump and it looked like they were going to lose, I was a basket case and the poor Aggie was just beside himself. What had seemed like such a good idea and fun adventure had taken a horrible turn. What's worse is the Astros weren't just going ahead and dying gracefully. No! They were hanging on, gripping wildly toward survival. I began hoping they'd just hurry up and walk toward the light, if you know what I mean. Finally in the 16th inning my butt hurt so bad from sitting for what felt like 12 hours, that I demanded my husband take me home. When I made this request, a hush fell around us. People were all looking at me as if to say NO! DON'T MAKE HIM LEAVE. THIS IS CRUEL, EVEN FOR YOU. But because I had the Crazies, I just ignored the pleas of the entire ballpark and whined until the Aggie agreed to take me home.
As we walked the three or four blocks to the truck, the Aggie stopped suddenly when he heard the roar of fans from inside stadium. Something BIG had just happened and we'd just MISSED it because of ME. All the steadiness he'd managed to possess that entire day drained out of him. As our eyes locked I couldn't tell if he wanted to hug me, hit me or simply cry. Yet – and again I stress this was because of the Crazies – I ignored the warning signs and found it physically impossible to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT. I said something to the effect of, "Babe, my legs are really hurting are we close to the car?" But it didn't come out like that. It came out like this: OH MY GOD, I AM IN TERRIBLE AGONY AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOUR HORRIBLE MEAN MAN! HOW MUCH FURTHER TO THE TRUCK IS IT. I DON’T THINK I WILL MAKE IT! SEE, I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE LEFT SOONER. WHY ARE WE STILL HERE? YOU DON’T REALLY KNOW ME DO YOU!? AND YOU DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT ME EITHER?!?!
I don't really remember his response. I think I've blacked it out. It was the start of one of the worse fights of our marriage. And now that I’m fully medicated again I can honestly say: IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. The Crazies made me do it. The Aggie was so angry that by the time we got to the car and learned that the Astros had won by a walkoff homer from Brad Ausmus, he didn't even care anymore. I had just taken him away from one of the most historically significant games in baseball and there just weren't words to express this. We sat in silence for a moment as he tried to calm himself down enough to drive us home. And yet again I couldn't just SHUT UP. I had to have the last word, which turned out to be something along the lines of: JEEZ WHY ARE YOU SO MAD IT WAS JUST A STUPID BASEBALL GAME. Which caused my husband to slam in truck in reverse and rather than back out slowly careen wildly into the while Cadillac parked behind up.
Perfect. The perfectly crappy ending to a perfectly shitastic day. For the first time my super honest/super moral husband's life, he made a decision that probably saved my life. He simply put the truck in drive and drove away ignoring the damage to the car. (It was none to speak of, by the way. Just a small dent on the already dented fender. Plus they were illegally parked, so don't send us too much hate mail.)
As we drove home in silence, my husband reached over and took my hand. Then he uttered one question so softly that you'd had to listen carefully to hear it: "You didn't take your medicine today did you?"
"No," I admitted. "I forgot."
"Babe, don’t ever fucking to do that again, " he replied, squeezing my hand. Then he turned his attention back to the road and we hurried home.
And do you know what? I haven't ever fucking done that again.
2 comments:
I understand! Isn't it amazing how you know you are acting like a complete ASS and you can't stop? Do you ever wonder if any of that comes from FC?
Al said it is in the water in FC...Catfish
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