One of the medications I take on occasion causes depression. It’s a unique kind of depression that I can feel in my head, almost like someone has soaked cotton balls in vinegar and then stuffed that sodden mess into all the nooks and crannies of my mind. I can feel the sour, musty thoughts press against my brain and the thick tearstuff pushing the back of my eyes. Over the years we’ve learned to identify this breed of black dog as coming from those particular pills, and it helps. If I can give the heartache a cause, I can treat it less like a barbed wire box and more like a psychic bruise that I know will fade in time.
The medicine that does this to me is one of the addictive ones, one of the pills that the pharmacists and nurses and interns always act like I’m headed for skid row whenever I just mention the prescription. If only they knew that I would rather eat ground glass than take this pill–and that I only take it when I feel like I’ve already eaten ground glass! At my last appointment the Rheumatologist encouraged me to take more pain medicine on a regular basis. At my last appointment the gynecologist offered to double my script for the pain meds he gives me. Neither man seemed to understand why I’d often rather put up with the ache in my joints and my groin. Bodily pain doesn’t always hurt as bad as the dark thoughts that come on the wings of opium.
What does all this have to do with blogging? Well, I feel better when I write. But I can always tell which writings are done under the influence of which drugs. So I daren’t do any fiction work when slogging through the aftereffects of the hydrocodone. (I can’t bring myself to call it “Vicodin”, because that’s a drug for TV junkies. I stick with the generic name to distance myself from Dr. House and Rush Limbaugh and the idiots on Nip/Tuck.) That leaves blogging.
And I don’t really have anything worthwhile to say about anything. I wish I had a carefully prepared set of opinions about a blogable topic like Health Care or Reality TV. I don’t. What thoughts I do have are ephemeral and fragmentary, like dandelion seeds. None of them makes for a whole post.
* I read the new Harlan Coben book, Caught. People are raving about it over at Goodreads. I personally feel like it was a 380 page episode of Law & Order:SVU. Or an afterschool special. The twist ending all those people seem to think so bloody special was really just him coming up with something utterly random.
* I watched 2 weeks worth of Lost tonight. The hour about Richard left me scratching my head. I love it when they turn 8 minutes of actual story into a whole episode. I find myself growing weary of the mythos, largely because we seem to still be dancing around the edge and flirting with poetic imagry. I am still afraid that instead of a map, the final work will be more of an inkblot and we’ll have to figure out what the story meant for ourselves.
* Friday night last, I had three of my female friends over to watch Twilight & New Moon with the Rifftrax guys. It was beyond wonderful to have company. I find myself getting lonely more often than I used to, and lonely for female company. We had the best time just talking and eating and laughing. We’re all devout Christians and there was so much joy for me in the pleasure of fellowship.
I’ve gone beyond my 500 words, and I feel part guilty, part rebellious. Most of all I feel victorious, because as usual the writing quieted the baying dog.