Godammit, I’m Mad!

All my life I have thought of myself as an Irritable Organism, like an amoeba under a microscope, being poked. Now, finally, there’s a treatment for this!  Read the product description:

“This profoundly calming perfume has a fresh, soothing fragrance with powerful undertones. It lessens irritability and helps you become centered, easy going and relaxed. Smelling of apples, bitter herbs and fresh grass, Roman Chamomile is soothing and comforting, calming, balancing and deeply relaxing, with a gentle, restorative effect which banishes irritability. The sunny Bergamot smells fresh with floral, lemon notes. It is reviving, soothing and balancing, cheering and heart warming and gently relieves irritation and anger. Rose is passionate and deeply rose fragranced, it banishes the blues and warms the heart. Patchouli is soothing, helping stabilize the mind; it has an earthy sensual nature that grounds those who get lost in too many circular thoughts, and gently helps irritation float away.”   (my italics)

OH MY GOD! At $65, can I afford not to get it? I feel soothed just thinking about it, but also kind of anxious. What if it’s sold out?  Do I need expedited delivery? Will I go crazy before I can get my hands on it?

I’m going to order it. I’ll keep you posted. You’ll probably know if it works or not. In fact, if it works, you won’t be hearing from me. Once I feel stable and centered, I won’t need to write.

I like the sound of this product much better than Doxepin, the drug my GP suggested when she noticed my war-torn legs. Doxepin is an old fashioned tricyclic antidepressant with the usual array of side effects.  I’m reluctant to take more meds, but I was intrigued by the following revelation:

“[Doxepin] is particularly useful in treating depression symptoms, which include anxiety, tension, trouble sleeping, guilt, fear, and lack of energy.”

That’s right, you saw it with your own eyes. Guilt and  fear. Imagine a life free of guilt and fear. Pretty fucking tempting, right? All they need to work on now is loneliness, apathy, bitterness, greed and insecurity.

Earlier tonight, I got my hair trimmed and felt pretty smug. I asked my husband to take a picture of me. I’m not sure whether this look says “groupie” or “hooker,” but I was pleased either way.

Hours later, I felt like this:

I saw this image on TV and said to my husband: “Look honey, there’s me.”

He didn’t know what I meant so I had to explain, “I’m a big sinking ship laying on its side and nobody knows what to do with me.”  He took the wise option of going to bed.

It’s so hard to maintain a feeling of okayness.  Know what I mean?

In the morning, my youngest Wolf will be going off to college. I am braced for Empty Nest Syndrome.

Being me, I googled Empty Nest Syndrome. All the images are depressing. The moms all look like the women in ads for antidepressants. Then there are a bunch of standard bird nests, sadder looking than the moms. There is even a website called emptynestmoms or something. There are also support groups. Ha.

I read a new agey thing with a nice mystical angle but in the end, it pronounced:

“There is no more empty nest syndrome, unless you have issues.”

Oh no! What?!? Fuck. But wait:

“It is, and has always been about, discovery and recovery … and best of all realizing you can have fun and create your own reality.”

God.

I just want to start all over again, to when each child was a baby. Everything seemed so easy. I could be a better mother and bake cookies. I would never yell.

I’m so proud of my boy and I know he’ll go on to change the world. But I wish I could stay in bed for around six months rather than contemplate my Empty Nest. You can bet I won’t be creating my own reality, unless that involves the reality of imaginary children who will let me cuddle them and never leave.

Does anyone remember when I was obsessed with leather shorts?

That was another me who is long gone. But check out Yoko Ono wearing leather shorts at the Canne Film Festival! What an early-adopter she was.

It’s a relief to stop caring about the latest trends. The more fashion-conscious one is, the more anxiety one must contend with, and that is what generates billions of dollars for the fashion industry. The anxiety can only be relieved by shopping, and even then it’s a momentary relief. Every fashion layout or editorial is a trigger, causing new anxiety.

I have no idea of the new trends! Is it wide trousers or narrow or bright colors or patterns or tailored or retro or ladylike or boho or menswear-influenced? Are we still wearing studs? Are shoes still more important than handbags? Do the blogger girls still go on about Celine?

I think that at a certain point, we all know what we like to wear. People who insist that they love to “experiment” with fashion are just excusing themselves for needing to shop. But that’s okay with me.

I’ve traded my fashion-driven anxiety for a more fundamental anxiety about my body.  It’s much cheaper.  And all the time I once spent looking at fashion is now squandered on tumblr, a paralyzing addiction that has turned me into a vegetable.  At least it doesn’t involve my credit card.

I think it’s safe to say that the fashion and beauty industries are based on insecurity. They must constantly appeal to and promote our insecurity in order to satisfy their shareholders.  But my depression has suppressed my insecurity.  I think this is a benefit.

I’m hoping that Michelle Bachman and Mrs. Palin will provide some joy for me in the coming months, joy that for the moment is mostly supplied by the Real Housewives and the Casey Anthony murder trial. It’s a perverse joy that springs from the sheer staggering awfulness of horrible people exhibiting their horribleness.

Max used to love watching Sean Hannity on Fox news, and it drove me nuts. Now I remember the happy smirk on his face and I understand: When the usual things in life fail to bring pleasure, the theater of human stupidity is a valuable diversion.

I tried to write about Max tonight but it made me cry so I gave up. Instead, I made this suicide prevention poster.  When my webmaster wakes up tomorrow, maybe he’ll help me to put it on that side panel on the right.

Suicide prevention should be a wider campaign, with more visibility.  I’ve spend a lot of time reading about it here.  I wish I had known more about it, especially risk assessment. More communities should make it a  priority, like San Louis Obispo, which came up with this video to reduce the stigma of mental illness.

Watching events in Egypt, I’ve been aware of how petty most of our concerns are. But it’s so uplifting to see people exercising their power! Why didn’t that happen in the US when Bush was president?!

People DO have the power to make change. The least we bloggers and our readers can do is unite to boycott the website that is poaching on the-coveted.  You can write to them at info@thecoveted.com and tell them what you think.

Freedom of speech is a huge issue for me.  So is keeping people alive.

Let’s practice being Egyptian instead of rolling over or expecting someone else to take action! I’m ready to be of service to anyone I can help.

Here is another offering from the cynical monster known as Jeffrey Campbell.  Each time he comes out with one of these, he is slapping his knee and laughing. He wants to see how far he can push today’s brainwashed consumerettes.

This “shoe” is special “thanks to a super cool removable ankle cuff.”  I can’t imagine fucking around with the ankle cuff and I can’t even think about it. No no no to everything about this contemptible shoe.

Now. Some of you out there are fed up with my Hideous Shoe posts. You want me to get serious, to write about stuff that’s interesting and thought provoking.

But others out there are going “Oh god, all she does is whine about her personal misery! Where is the fun stuff?”

Do I need two blogs, one for trivial mockery of fashion trends and pathetic fame-whore bloggers, and another to air my feelings of despair and hopelessness? Or should I give up blogging altogether, as a waste of time and energy? Or should I just kill myself or pray for brain cancer?

I don’t know what direction to take. I really truly don’t know if I’m trying to express myself or avoid myself.  I’m looking for considered opinions, not some bullshit about some other bullshit.

Today I realized that I need Gnarlitude to live.

Nothing worked to shake off my lethargy and depression until I clicked on her blog.

“Uh, seriously, with my black motorcycle boots this would just be beyond fucking hot. Lanvin S/S”

“JLP is such a great photographer and really nails these motoshoots. An older friend of mine has been wearing the Harley hat below since he was a teen and that shit is vintage now, it made me smile to spot it in this shoot.”

YES! OF COURSE your friend has been wearing that “Harley hat” long before anyone else! Duh! I love you, never stop!

I don’t know what works for you, but when I’m depressed, my escape route is usually indignant rage or in this case, perverse humor. Hipsters parading their hipness isn’t always funny, but Gnarlitude raises the bar to beyond parody.

Let’s create the ultimate Hipster and get it over with. I’ll begin, and when I run out of ingredients, you can throw in the rest:

Bukowski, Iggy, The Misfits, vintage motorcycles, opiates, Max’s Kansas City, CBGB’s, Velvet Underground, leather, denim, taxidermy, skulls, spikes, swastikas, Patti Smith, Chuck Palahniak, old band t-shirts, skateboards, cigarettes, dope paraphernalia, bad poetry, Nick Cave, Converse, cowboy boots, stupid hats, Godard, Hells Angels, serial killers, Death Metal, tattoos, vintage guitars…

All week, I’ve been reading the little tributes to Alexander McQueen. Some of them just feature a nice picture with either “R.I.P” or “There are no words.”

But there are words, and I’ve been waiting for them.

People who kill themselves take a lot of other people with them.

They aren’t “laughing in heaven with Isabella Blow”, they are just dead.

People who kill themselves are usually in great distress. They are not right in the head. If we take care to monitor our depressed friends and loved ones, we might be able to save them; but we might not.  Maybe we need to reach out more. Maybe we need to make depression easier to talk about. Antidepressants still carry a stigma even now. I can’t stand to hear people say “Oh, my doctor recommended medication but I’m not taking that route.” You never hear anyone with pneumonia making that statement.

Maybe Alexander McQueen was unhinged by grief over losing his mother. Now his dad has to deal with the loss of a son.

No one wants to talk about the brutality of suicide. The people left behind are victims as well. It’s an act of negation, a complete loss of hope, but it’s also a selfish act. I would even say ruthlessly selfish.

I’m not worried about whether poor Alexander McQueen is resting in peace, but I’m deeply sorry for his family. It will fuck them up forever.

Don’t kill yourself, you fuckers! We need you here. Things will get better. That is my message, so pass it on.

I have been reading about neurochemistry and the effect of serotonin on relationships, and some new studies suggest that antidepressants are not the free lunch some of us were hoping for.

Not only do the SSRI drugs dampen the libido, they can fuck up your relationships. They can even inhibit the neurochemical activities that are involved in romantic love.

This is a little alarming. Many of my friends and enemies are on one or more antidepressants, and we are all authorities on which ones are energizing (Welbutrin) or sedating (Remeron). We know which ones are too constipating (Cymbalta) and which ones have the worst withdrawal symptoms (Effexor.)

Most of us are less interested in sex than we used to be, but many of us are lucky enough to have partners who will rise to the challenge. They know that if we stopped taking our meds, we’d be impossible to live with, so our increased sex drive would be a moot point.

While reading about the biochemistry of love and attraction, though, I was happy to see my own theory of female sexuality confirmed: It’s all about oxytocin.

As long as we’re secreting oxytocin (which is stimulated by breastfeeding and orgasm) we are driven to connect and nurture. Oxytocin leads us to form bonds, basically. Any woman who has nursed a baby can tell you this. Oxytocin equals bliss. When male voles are given a shot of oxytocin, they want to be clingy and monogamous. When autistic people are given oxytocin via a nasal spray, they are better able to make eye contact. It even increases trust and empathy.

Here is the important part, men: If you pay more attention to our boobs, this will make us love you more, and continue to love you without straying. It will make everything better. When you come home from work, don’t complain about the traffic and how much you hate your job. Instead, play with your partner’s boobs!

Back to the SSRI problems, I don’t know what the long-term effect on our society will be if no one wants sex and people stop falling in love. Maybe we’ll adapt somehow, or maybe we’ll decide it’s better to be depressed because we hate ourselves than be resilient but sexually numb.

In any case, let’s all make sure that everyone’s boobs are properly attended to, and that everyone keeps taking their meds until reality is more tolerable in larger doses.