Moustache 1

I have been a party to no less than two interventions thrown on my behalf.

First of all, they are nowhere near as fun as they make them look on tv.  You would think if you are going to gather a group of people to collectively tell you you suck ass at something, there would be balloons.

Or at least a pinata.

They make pinatas for everything now.

I once went to a Divorce Party where they had a pinata shaped like a giant penis, and when they smashed it open, it was filled with Worthers’ and we all became bisexual.

No wonder she was getting divorced.  Who the hell likes Worthers’ besides old people?

Both talks have been about the same thing.  My unwillingness to get on maintenance medication for acute anxiety.  My awesome behavior because of that decision.  And oh yeah, the irrational fear that I am genetically doomed.

My aunt Gigi took her life when I was in elementary school.  She was painfully beautiful with dark brown hair past her waist.  When my mom got the call, she screamed “God damn her,” and began throwing everything we owned into suitcases to travel to Europe for the funeral.

Since that moment, I have been treated like an undetonated land mine.

I am scattered and messy and scary to people who don’t understand how those things can be beautiful.  Just like her.

I’ve been medicated since high school.  I’ve seen therapists.  Some who tell me I need Jesus.  Some who have mustaches and short sleeve button up dress shirts and pleated khaki pants.

Most of the time, I just lay there telling them all the things they want to hear to feel effective and successful at their jobs.  Then, I get in the elevator with my lollipop wondering when everyone will just leave me the hell alone already, and who decided Van Morrison was the safest music to serenade crazy people with.

Was there a study done?  Everyone in the Van Morrison control group lived…unlike the poor chaps in the experimental Moby room.

Maybe I don’t want my brain to work normally.  There’s a difference, you know, between anxiety and depression.  I’m not depressed.  I don’t need pills that make me numb and comatose to inspiration, creativity and that line in the sand that I so like to dance naked across while giving you the finger.

Most days, I quite the enjoy erratic and jagged whimsy.

After all…we’re all mad here….aren’t we?

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