Chemical Imbalances are Fun! (Yeah, right…)

Posted: May 19, 2012 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , , ,

Once upon a time, I had “normal” stresses.  In the time before I broke Jill, they were very simple.  You could even call them manageable.  “Why does my job suck?  Why did I go and get a degree to be a collections douche?   When will I find a break and get some writing published?”

For most of those questions, I didn’t have an answer.  That last one?  Yeah, that was a gimme– it’s because I haven’t really sent much out yet (and by “sent much out yet,” I mean tried twice and then got too busy working to do the proper research).  Boom.  Jill got broken, got reincarnated, and I got this little corner of the intarwebs to cope with the boredom.  It was a nice little package.  I’d grown accustomed to the stress profile, and for once– I felt stable.

This is saying a lot– for a card-carrying lunatic.

I <3 you, Hunter

There’s a fine line between brilliance and madness, and I’d like more opportunities to toe that line. The brilliant side, that is.

So after this little (ok, not so little) shake up, and in the wake of the Tough Mudder, I’ve found myself devoid of purpose.  There are few things that can drive me up a wall faster than lack of purpose, even if it is masquerading in the auspices of a dead-end job.  Having income is purpose, in the most basic sense of the concept.  Now, here I am, dealing with a serious headache and insomnia.  Leave it to me to ask the $64,000 question:  why?

Then it dawned on me.  As an unmedicated martini shaker of awesome and crazy, I tend to pick out patterns of behavior (aka symptoms) that tell me when I’m about to stop being fun.  This lovely tendency to bounce myself out into the third person often manifests as talking to myself— but it does allow me to pick up on red flags of things to come.  In this case, depression (cue ominous music).  I’ve walked down that road enough times in my early 20’s to know the early warning signs of the FML’s.

Let’s see… been pretty listless.  Yup, check.  Curtailed physical activity (Hell, all activity) also resulting in a reduction in caffeine intake.  Ditto.  Hey, there’s the source of the headache– withdrawals!   Hate those damn things.  Backtracking from the headache and racing mind, I got back to square one.

I need a friggin job

This breakdown is pretty crappy– and accurate. Now, let’s factor in how employers treat applicants like cattle. No, scratch that, hamburgers get served faster.

Could I step out and grab a throw-away job at Taco Hell or some other food mine?  Possibly, but it’d take a month to get hired– because employers are dicks (but that’s another rant entirely).  Not to mention, nothing reeks of fail more than a thirty-something working with a bunch of teens at a McJob.  Thanks but no thanks, I can flip myself off in the mirror without having to further defecate upon my bachelor’s degree.  Like many other graduates, I’m left asking myself, “I fought this hard for… this?!”

Damn right I did, and having that degree hanging on my wall only serves as a reminder that I need to stop accepting what comes my way– and find ways to get what I want.  No, scratch that, make that need— borderline deserve.

For now, however, there’s only so much I can do at 2am.  So here I sit, after having murdered my caffeine-withrdawal headache with Excedrine, a complete insomniac.  My mind finally figured out why I’ve lacked even the motivation to work out in between application after resume after application.  Yeah, chew on that one, the narcissist didn’t even want to do a single push up.  This, coming from a guy who loves being a gym rat.

Now the fun part of managing my imbalances with naught but my iron will (and sometimes beer):  once I’ve identified what’s making me into something I can’t stand—  I can snap manic.  It’s akin to bottoming out, but without the whole “bottom” part.  Screw that noise, especially when the chemicals in my head like to play with each other in ways others don’t.

It’s just like the adage says, “Some people suffer from insanity.  I enjoy every minute of it.”  Well, to say “every” might be a touch of a lie, but I’d hate more to be boring.

Unplug.

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