Maybe you've noticed that the Chef's been out to lunch lately, and there's a simple explanation that may still elude some of you, and understandably so. The answer is that my brain chemistry's been out of whack north of a couple of months now. I've said before that I'd rather have cancer. People take you more seriously when you have cancer because that's a disease.
Perhaps putting the matter in practical terms would be helpful. When the chemicals in your brain aren't mixing and mingling like God intended, you just want to forget about it. You sleep until noon or later (in bed, you're more likely to avoid the Ebola virus and ISIS), dishes don't get done, you eat a lot of frozen food and Kentucky Fried Chicken because you don't cook, you don't go anywhere, and you ignore the rest of the human race unless engagement is absolutely necessary. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. You also quit doing the things that you like to do, lose your sense of self, are sure Jesus hates you, and quit participating on Facebook as often as you did. But I'm carrying on here.
You might think that some of what I've described is like being on vacation; if so, go take one. It's more like, I imagine, frequenting the scummiest, greasiest drug den on the face of the Earth, a place completely devoid of color, joy, and sun, and full of nothing but rot, neglect, desperation, ache, and shame. You wouldn't talk about it. You'd talk about going to California and show everyone the pictures of the swell time you had.
Lately, I'm not quite as desperate. For the first time in years, I have good people consistently looking after my mental health. My doctor, the best I've ever had, and certainly better than the Colonel Sanders lookalike who was wont to skip out on appointments in favor of booking last-minute cruises, apparently, and I have been playing medication chess for a few months now, and maybe this time, we found a combination that works. I don't quite have the energy I'd like to have. When I got out of the hospital, I had the energy of a pack of mules. That's because Colonel Sanders, in an effort to pull me out of my torpor, prescribed me Ritalin. It later dawned on me that I felt so good because I was taking speed. Unfortunately, I prompted Colonel Sanders to this page. If you're reading this, hi Colonel - expect a whopper of a dental bill. I hope it won't put a dent in your future vacation plans.
I liked my therapist based simply on our initial phone conversation, and I like her in practice. In a word, she's jolly. We laugh freely during my sessions. I liked my previous therapist, too. Most of her suggestions were valuable, and I followed most of them, but we had fundamental communication problems. I don't really blame her. She's a nice older woman, and I simply felt uncomfortable cursing in front of her. When I let one fly, her lips would purse and she'd turn flush. She insisted that that sort of thing was part and parcel of the practice, but I still felt bad cussing in front of a little old lady. Maybe it was inevitable that our patient/therapist relationship would end. I won't talk about the reasons here, but I will say the parting could not have been more amicable. My new therapist doesn't seem to mind my foul mouth.
None of this is easy to talk about. The reality is that I don't really want to talk about it, and you probably don't want to hear about it. After all, there are more glamorous things to read out there than an account of a middle-aged man's (likely) life-long struggle with depression. Furthermore, some of you, I know this, think that this is all a bullshit attempt to duck out of being a responsible person, or that I'm selfish. To you, I won't try to explain, thanks for reading, and go on vacation. To the rest of you who make the effort to try to understand, I felt I owed you. I thank you as well.
I dedicate this to my neighbor Gustavo. He asked me recently, "Are you still writing?" I told him no. I'm out of ideas. He suggested that I write about running out of ideas. More importantly, he suggested that I write. I can't thank him enough for the encouragement. Enjoy, my friend.
