A Personal Note about Being Crazy

So, I am crazy.

I am not saying this to be hyperbolic; I am saying this because in the most basic medical sense it is true. The psychiatrist calls my particular kind of crazy anxiety disorder, which is a fairly manageable with medication, therapy, or both—and a tub of ice cream.   Anxiety disorder has to do with my brain.  My brain doesn’t make enough of a certain chemical or it makes too much of it (I’ve really given up on trying to make sense of just what my brain is doing), and as a result, I spend my life heavily scheduling things and being “tightly wound” so that there are no unanticipated deviations. I am Vulcan. Logical. Reasoned.  Unable to adapt to the unordered and unplanned, telling them to “Live long and prosper,” while inside I’m screaming “die in a fucking fire you megalomaniacs!” At least, that’s what I imagine what Spock does.  I think that’s the only way he could possibly put up with Kirk*.

But the problem is not with my anxiety.  I take pills for that. And I count to 100 slowly.  And I breathe. The problem is with my hormones.

The medical world, for all of its advances, knows shit about hormones.

I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. This means that my little eggs are angry about leaving the safe world of the ovary and try desperately to cling to the outside like dust bunnies  battening** down the hatches at the sight of the vacuum cleaner. Because my case is not too severe (and because I’ve been on birth control since I was 17), the doctors are largely able to manage my condition with hormonal contraceptives.  The pills make sure that the eggs make the long journey down the fallopian tube and keeps my girl bits healthy.  At least, that is what they are supposed to do.  My body doesn’t like artificial hormone.   After a length of time on the birth control pill, I start developing morning sickness every time I start a new pill cycle, then come the  migraines.  And then, just when things start to get predictable, I start having bleed through and headaches that last days. Then I start a new medication that confuses my body long enough for me to feel fantastic and to say things like “I’ve never felt so alive in my life” *twitch* or “I’ve harnessed the energy of 7 toddlers and paired it with my mind of steel.”

In short, I feel like this:

Courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half. hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

And I am HIGH on the feeling.  Until I return to the state of hormone rejection.  Like all rejection, hormone rejection sucks.  Your reproductive system is sobbing in a corner because Hormone*** has decided he likes Brain better.  She’s smarter, you know.  But Hormone is  emotionally confusing, and  makes Brain question her logic: Does he love me? Is he really just the asshole my kidney keeps telling me he is?  Is he worth the constant unrest and emotional pain? Until finally, like a parent, I have to step in, kick Hormone to the curb, and try again.

But today, on what have previously been happy hormone drugs, I do not feel happy.  I feel cranky/sad/happy/mournful/gleeful/sick/disgusted/elated/grumpy all at once.  Ok, more like a new one every 4-7 seconds.

The last time this happened, I was in the car with my roommate.  We were driving to the mall.  I love the mall because I am a shallow, fickle human being who would consider prostituting herself for a friends/family discount at Anthropologie. That is the level of my illness. Regardless, as we drove, she was talking about something on the radio when all of the sudden I started crying uncontrollably.

Roommate: What the hell just happened?
Me: *sobs* It’s not you.  I’m just *sobs* really *sobs* sad *blubbers*

Roommate:  Um…
Me: It’s the hormones *smiles* I feel fine now.

True story.

And that, my friends, is crazy. Because inside my body it’s a reenactment of 90210 but with more modern fashion.  And even though my Vulcan self knows that I am being unreasonable, my human self is weak to the hormones.  Mr. Spock should be glad he wasn’t a woman.

*It’s not really that I have issue with Captain Kirk.  It’s that I have issue with William Shatner. Perhaps, as a friend of mine claims, it is that Shatner is “too big” an actor for TV, that he belongs on the stage.  Perhaps it’s just that William Shatner is a one-dimensional actor. Just putting that out there.

**Ok.  The only time I have ever heard anyone use the word “batten,” it was in the phrase “batten down the hatches.”  Little did I know that is actually not the most common usage, which instead refers to fattening up.  Seriously.  The dictionary does not lie. Wikipedia might.

*** Hormone wears a wife beater and has Justin Bieber hair.  He is the James Dean of the emoverse.


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