Another year over, and a new year not quite begun.
Christmas weekend is behind us. I believe the full force of my annual post-holiday depression hit me last night. It’s a good thing there are no bridges nearby – s’all I’m sayin’.
I’m actually wrestling with the notion of anti-depressants. I see a therapist, but I do not believe she is the medicating kind of therapist. The only mention of pharmaceuticals thus far has been during our first session when she asked me if I was on, or ever had been on, mood altering medications.
No. Sadly, I’m not.
In years past I would have been vehemently opposed to taking that kind of medication… any kind of medication really. I don’t know whether my relaxing into acetaminophen and the occasional pilfering from my mother’s pharmacy – for VERY occasional therapeutic purposes only of course – is part of the expected maturation process that happens when everyone gets to a certain age and “whatever” becomes less a response of adolescent rebellion and more being too exhausted to care about maintaining a persona… OR if it’s the process whereby I am slowly but surely exiting my long dark period of constant anti-pharmaceutical brainwashing.
And not just anti-pharmaceutical… but anti-government… anti-religion… anti-society really.
I began what would become a life-partner type of relationship at the age of 19. This person was – is – very passionate about his belief system and about his outlook on education, life, spirituality and energy connection. I was in just the wrong place at just the wrong time and WHAMMO… I blinked and ten years passed before I realized that my philosophies and opinions and beliefs and preferences were his.
Dammit.
I’d become one of those women I’d either pitied or despised depending on the day and my mood.
So here I am at 35, still chained to my own personal testosterone infused ball of STUPID, who – by the way – is becoming less and less attractive with each propagandist syllable that is repeated over and over and blah blah blah like he’s Rainman waiting for Wapner.
I’ve heard his stories. I’ve heard his philosophies. I’ve listened to his epic tales of grand passion and pain that have shaped him into the warped, delusional, self-absorbed, infantile, repetitive quasi-guru that he is. I’ve been orbiting him for years now, seeing to his needs instead of paying heed to the numerous and growing holes in my own damn ozone.
But the therapist is right. He’s still here for a reason… I need him for something… the mind reels at that, but I guess she’s not a therapist because she earned her diploma as a result of purchasing just the right box of cracker-jacks.
So… once I figure out that nasty little conundrum, then perhaps I can sit and ponder my own take on western medicine and politics and spirituality and civilization at large.
The guru can go attain his own enlightenment under his own steam… or – more likely – he’ll just find someone else to take up the heavy-lifting in carting him the rest of the way up to the mountaintop.
The wheels on the bus go round and round…
