I played Caduceus and took myself off this particular anti-seizure medication I was on. Dangerous? Risky? Of course, but with my self-obtained Masters Degree from the University of Reading The Shit Out of WebMD tells me that I might have been correct in doing so. The long list of side effects read like War and Peace and I had all of them, plus some symptoms of polio, oddly enough. This drug was making me crazy—literally. I was having panic attacks, angina, arrhythmia and I’m was enduring bouts of hair-trigger anger at levels of pissed off postal workers.
Old joke.
Anyway, I screamed at my beloved Bixby this morning, simply for being a dog, simply for wanting to chase a squirrel. In the process, I’m pretty sure I might have circuitously and most unintentionally, threatened the life of a Peruvian lawn care guy. My anger wasn’t aimed at anybody, yet I know I frightened him. If there’s one thing I KNOW for certain, it’s how to recognize the look of fear in a man’s face. So, after my rage, he abruptly left working in the yard across the street and the once perfectly sculpted simian topiary he was tending to is now a double amputee.
That was early this morning. He never returned and I have no warrants pending against me, so I might be in the clear there. I’ll apologize next time I see him, if I ever see him again. He probably thinks I’m a member of Trump’s advanced guard; an angry, portly, dog-owning, middle-aged, hobbled white woman in a muumuu.
It’s been happening for a few weeks but presented in lengthy bouts last night. My anger and rage, not my love of muumuus. I got on a crying jag, common for my condition I’m told and then I got extremely angry, also part of the package. Why, you ask? I watched The Lettuce of All Media, Wolff BLitzer on CNN. He was espousing boring , yawn inducing anti Trump rhetoric, which is what he always does. I don’t watch CNN or even that much news lately, but while running through my satellite channels, I inexplicably stopped on CNN. The network has this arrogance about it. Anyway, I got angry at something Mr. Bland said and that started a raging litany of other things that I didn’t know angered me, then I started crying over things I never knew could make me emote.
The Rogerian with Jungian tendencies who analyzes me regularly insists that my abnormalities are all perfectly normal. He reminded me that on top of everything else, I’m in mourning and an odd little duck to boot which means I’ll process the stages of grief differently. And more loudly, more randomly, more frequently and as a one Señor Paulito Gomez can attest, possibly more violently.
