Mousse Au Chocolat from the Waldorf

The last time I took medication for my anxiety/depression was in 2004.  We had suffered a series of miscarriages.  The medication turned out to be a disaster on top of misfortune.  After 3 weeks of a state of what can only be described as "an unrelenting and uncomfortable highness"  I swore the crap off from that point on.  Until 2 weeks ago.  Recently, I had become more and more dissatisfied with the buzz of anxiety that accompanied me everywhere.  I was willing to try medication again. 

So I spoke with my doctor and she gave me something that turned out to be more like an elephant tranquilizer than a subtle mood stabilizer.  I have never slept as much as I have in the past 2 weeks.  It's great to catch up on my rest and everything. It's not so great when the accompanying dreams turn into deleted scenes from Alice in Wonderland, rejected for their sheer oddness.  After 5 short days, the meds have softly landed in the trash.

Wrestling with my personal anxiety demon has grown wearisome.  I mean really wearisome.  So much so that I thought I could chase it away with a legally administered pharmaceutical.  The one upside to having ingested chemical restraints was that, during the 3 or so waking hours of my day, I was finally able to sit and read a book from cover to cover for the first time in years.  Anxiety is a monkey that rarely will let one rest long enough for such benign and fulfilling pursuits.  The book I chose to read is called "Planting Dandelions." It was written by a woman -- a mother-- who just happens to be a ferociously talented writer.  So talented, in fact, that I swore to gnaw off my fingers at the second knuckle lest I attempt EVER to write another blogpost, letter, memo or even permission slip as long as I should live.   I'm currently typing with bloody stumps.

So back to the blog.  To blog or not to blog.  That is the newest question.   I was really enjoying babbling on about life and kids and my personal quest for sanity.  Then I stumble upon this ace.  She really nails it. I mean, I don't think her life is any more or less poetic than my own. But her prose would suggest she has mastered the art of turning every single mudpie her kids serve up into a Mousse au Chocolat from the Waldorf.  She even spun the tail of a torrid crush she enjoyed with a fellow writer into something remarkable and not at all untoward.  If I had written about something like that, I'd be defending it in a court of law--certainly not accepting a Peabody for it.  I mean how dare this b**ch turn domestic life and all the shitty little nooks and crannies of it, into art.   I mean serious art.   Where the hell does that leave me?  I'll tell you where: in a corner, rocking back and forth, staring at the crumbs on the kitchen floor, eating my hair and mumbling to myself,  'That was supposed to be my job!'

Then I think, maybe there's room in this vat of maternal insanity for more than one voice.  Perhaps my un-medicated voice is less somber, grammatically correct, tempered and thoughtful and just funny enough.  I don't know. It's the only voice I have.  I mean besides the other ones inside my head (just kidding).

'Anxiety' and its bastard B Side 'Depression' are energy-robbing cads of dubious integrity and origins.  Not to be trusted to medication in my case, I'm sad to report. They're the enemies I keep closer than friends lest they sneak up behind me unawares.   Medicating me only makes me less capable of managing them.  Perhaps less restrained but also less funny.  Which, let's face it, is the only way the whole thing works.  I'll leave the talented writing to the artful b**ch. 

I got the lunatic rants, the cheap seats and the low road covered.

And I got 403 horse power and 4Wheel Drive.