Monday, July 4, 2016


Oh, if only there were a Fukitol.
I would be at the doctor's office demanding a prescription for Fukitol.
I would buy stock in Fukitol.
I would stockpile Fukitol.
I would give glowing testimonials about how Fukitol changed my life.
I really need Fukitol!
I think Fukitol is one of those Netherworld things.
Of course, in the Netherworld, no-one needs Fukitol, because it's okay to be your authentic, whackadoodie self. That goes a long way to reducing depression.
In the third dimension, AKA "real" life, there is no Fukitol.
There are only antidepressants and antipsychotics with nasty side effects, and I can't take them because they make me even more fucked than I was before. I did not sign up for Mor-Fukd.
Antidepressants and other such pills are touted as being magic wonder drugs that will take a person from depression to farting rainbows and singing with butterflies.
My experience with one such pill had me jumping up on a counter and preaching and scaring the hell out of my son. With another, I felt like my brain had grown little hands and was trying to pick it's way out of my skull. 
Prozac was different. With Prozac, I was completely flat. I mulled over the idea of cutting my arm, not in a self-injury kind of way, but to see if I could feel anything at all.
It is so dismissive to say to a depressed (or otherwise mentally ill, or grieving, or not fitting well into life in hell) person:
"Have you considered medication?"
Fuck right off with that shit.
Most medications and I do not get along. I react badly to them.
My cousin tried every medication combination humanly possible. She still ended up committing suicide.
Add this to your list of shit not to say to people who are suffering/struggling.
"Have you considered medication?"
Bitch, I am mentally ill. I know all too well about medication, about what it's touted as doing, about what it really does, and about the fact that, for me anyway, the cure is worse than the problem.
I also know that being under constant stress and feeling that no-one will ever understand or care about or believe in you will make anyone, whether or not they are diagnosed as "mentally ill," unhappy. Chronic stress is not a good thing. Being in a constant psychic "war zone" will make anyone "crazy."
Unfortunately, one of the first things to go under circumstances like mine (working an average of 48 hours a week and, not uncommonly 60, and sometimes 72) is creativity. 
I miss telling my little tales, even if only to myself.
I miss being able to think.
I don't like being an automaton.
I have to pay the bills.
If you think $20 an hour will do that in this day and age, think again.
Women on both sides of my family live to an average age of 85. I highly doubt that will be the case with me if things keep going at this rate. Not that I'd want to if they keep going at this rate.
The magazines all glibly tell you that "talking things out with a friend" will help reduce stress.
I have no friends because I am an overworked, socially inept asshole. 
Such magazines are inevitably classist anyway. They are directed at Thin, Pretty, Middle Class, Married White Ladies with 2.5 Reasonably Well Behaved Children, who may be having a bit of a Bad Hair Day. They are not directed at someone in the working class, who is mentally ill, has no support system, and is trying to stay afloat because her adult son, who is high functioning autistic and has agoraphobia and depression, still needs her help.
So yeah--sorry if my Stinkin' Thinkin' offends y'all.
On the other hand, maybe I'm too damn tired to give a fuck.
I really need to get me some Fukitol!