Asleep at the Wheel Again

More often than not, a psychiatric diagnosis is made after a brief interview where the "physician" observes an apparent set of symptoms that fall into some category of dysfunction and abnormality. So after about fifteen minutes in a sterile, foreign environment, the observed symptoms are almost immediately categorized by level of severity and the diagnosis is magically transformed into one of several very expensive, very new, and very over prescribed medications that are often used off-label by psychiatric practitioners.

Did we not learn anything from the Hawthorne studies where we learned that the very act of observation in and of itself changes not only behavior, but also performance of subjects in any given setting?

There simply is no such thing as "natural" observation. The act of observing changes behavior, and I can tell you that the act of being observed sure changes mine!

Largely driven by pharmaceutical conglomerates, a psychiatric diagnosis can be every bit a trendy the right pair of sunglasses. It seems more and more obvious to me that higher prevalence of certain medical conditions is directly proportional to the amount if R & D ($$$$) and the promotional strategy (advertising!) goes into a product. , that diagnoses are driven more and more by big Pharma and the latest and greatest pharmaceutical discovery.

To the best of my knowledge and memory, it started in the 70's when Valium was the first to become known as "Momma's Little Helpers." The 80's brought with it the discovery of Prozac, The Wonder Drug. It did not take long, and before we knew it, everyone from the Island to the Upper East Side was popping the capsules on a daily basis. Seeing a shrink was the norm, not the exception. It was almost trendy to be depressed. So long, as it stopped there.

Next? Next came the smart pills. The Adderall, Provigil, the nap in a bottle. Stimulants were to late 90's what cocaine was in the 70's. Only this time they were socially acceptable and prescribed to children. Parents from Westchester and Scarsdale rushed to the nearest doctor in town to get their children on the fast track to the Ivy League. I would not be surprised if Shire-Richwood (the company that developed the pharmaceutical gem) bought add space in pre-schools. ADD. It is almost cool to be diagnosed with it.

Who wouldn't want to have the focus and energy of Ty Pennington: The "face" in the Adderall campaign? I see his face plastered in advertisements and brochures all over the waiting room at my doctor's office. But let's face it; he can build a house in a week-- I didn't need to see his name face on the pamphlet to know that guy is on speed!

I can almost hear the little kids saying "mommy, mommy, when I grow up want to be hyperactive too!" He is a man's man. When I grow up, I want to be hyperactive too! And before we knew it, the edition of the DSM has a new category just for grown-ups. ADD with Adult Onset. You do not even need to be just NOS (re is in the next edition of the DSM-IV: ADD with Adult onset. You do not even need to be hyperactive anymore, just N.O.S. (not otherwise specified).

So now that the trend seems to be prescribing off-label use for atypical antipsychotics, and neuroleptics, everyone from Britney Spears to the kid next door are suddenly taking Depakote & Seroquel for bipolar disorder.

And apparently, now I am too! Could it be that I am just moody or having a bad day? Could it be that your obnoxious jokes and personality are getting under my skin? Or that maybe, just maybe, I have good reason to be angry or upset? Isn't it possible that all these years of chronic stress have finally just pushed me over the edge? Or could it?

So after years of being medicated with every pharmaceutical from Ativan to Zoloft, I finally got that golden diagnosis that makes me almost as cool as Britney or Paris, and so, yes-- I have been diagnosed bipolar too. I've also been diagnosed with just about everything else that appears within the spectrum of anxiety disorders, so is it any wonder that I find it a little bit unnerving to place myself in the oh, so capable hands of a shrink who seems to have gotten his degree out of some cracker jack box-- because surely no competent medical professional would dare to place me on just about every sedative and anti-psychotic medication or threaten to have me institutionalized simply because I suggested he may actually want to treat me rather than medicate me... but that would be too labor intensive for a shrink who divides his time between the local community mental health agency and the county jail. I have taken every pill.

So rather than take the time to listen to a word I have to say, or try something archaic like actually evaluating my symptoms and reviewing my medical history before treating me with the latest and greatest R&D breakthrough to hit the Pharmaceutical Industry since Penicillin.

If I am happy, I am grandiose. If I am sad, I am depressed. If I am angry, I am paranoid. If I am feeling confident, I must be narcissistic. When I am excited I must, of course, be manic.

Couldn't it just be that your constant bullshit is really just pissing me the fuck off?

I have finally become every bit as crazy as I could have possibly imagined one being. Wouldn't it be nice to know that maybe, just maybe, there was some hope before my entire body and mind were tweaked with every artificial chemical Psychotropic Medication.

Unfortunately, the one thing I am not is psychotic, though I often wish I were!

The idea of living in an alternative reality is most appealing! A place where this hellhole I call home might is sprinkled with glitter and daffodils.

But no, no, unfortunately, I am not psychotic. I might let you think that I am for a little while: It is a little more fun that way for both of us!

Until, of course, until it gets real. Until I am so far beyond exhausted that I can hardly get out of bed or sleep through my alarm because I have been pushing myself excessively hard for way too long. I have fallen asleep during my lunch hour, found myself dozing off during a conference call-- or worse--- a Webinar!

It is hard enough to navigate a big boxy 5-speed SUV wide-awake. Try doing it when your eyes start to feel blurry. Just add a huge ass deer bumper to that contraption, and I am definitely a danger to others!

I have hit excessively many non-moving objects while awake and focused-- not to mention the times I am tired and distracted!

Asleep at the wheel again!

Them I get home... eventually... and it happens again! Asleep at the wheel of the very worst kind: My mouse wheel! The Logitech mouse optical bar that controls my entire world! How many times have I accidentally lost or sent files simply from "bung" the wheel?

I lost a whole hard drive once-- back when they were really, expensive! At least no one got hurt. Well, not that time!

There was actually one time I fell asleep sitting up with a cigarette burning over somewhere too close to my keyboard. My new laptop that I bought with my very last disbursement of my student loans. It was an all-in-one deal. I must have had a cigarette in my hand, my mouth-- don't even remember... but after a few minutes went by, probably a few hours, maybe even a few days, and I woke up to find my favorite letter melted into the motherboard just beneath the flimsy little keys. That was no fun, since I had to change all my passwords using a pen jabbing at the empty space on my keyboard where my F-key used to be.

I recently had to put another poor keyboard to rest along with its antiquated predecessors of roller balls, and peripherals that I bought long before the USB port was ever an option! So there lays my keyboard, along with a few outdated mice, printer cables, cable splitters, and a whole lot of cords that surge protectors.

I cannot say why exactly, but for some (pathological) reason, I still have mice that I used to run with DOS before I upgraded to Windows 3.1. Yes-- I have quite an extensive cord collection! Zip drives, Floppy disks, thermal paper that has turned yellow since they I do not think you can even find a fax machine that still uses those 6-foot rolls I used to buy in the early '90's.

They are in there somewhere, tucked away in boxes filled with telephone cords, old school printer cables and hardly modern gender switchers! Buried along with an external zip drive and my first hot swappable floppy disk drive and CD. Because sadly, I do not think I could function in this world if I were attached to a keyboard that was missing the letter "F"

But don't worry, got a new one. I could not live or die without using my favorite word in the English language. that one needed to be replaced. Next generation: Wireless! Woo-hoo! Now we're talking. Falling asleep at the wheel can be a problem especially for a cat. Poor little thing. She is so used to watching me move it around furiously " just enough to catch the signal at just the right angle, my poor cat thinks it is a toy. The only mouse that is more fun to chase than that bird she once caught when she jumped off the porch. Poor little spotty, she curls up next to the PC tower because it is warmer than my bed. My mouse gets more attention than my poor little kitty cat. Holy shit! My priorities are fucked up!

But still, here I am, huddled over the keyboard while the world waits for me outside. I could be sitting in a bar. I could be mailing a letter. I could be taking a walk, but no. Here I am. Stuck like a zombie in front of the keyboard.

"COMPUTER OFF: MAKE IT STOP!"

I have been staring at that the computer screen so long it beginning to morph into strange little dots in my peripheral vision. I'm so stressed out that my hands sometimes shake when I I'm so stressed out that my adrenaline and cortisol levels are literally damaging my brain.

And, trust me. if I'm not crazy yet, I am well on my way!

The one condition you will not find in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders is loneliness. There is no diagnosis for being lonely. But if there were how would it best be described? Perhaps how I feel it the most when I am surrounded by6 in a room full of people. A room filled with people. People everywhere, yet I am still completely alone.

Every time I go the medical center, and I am required to give them, the name of the person to be contacted I.C.E. (in case of emergency).

Being in crisis and no one to call-- or worse calling, someone when in crisis and no one shows up? Which is worse? Given the choice, I would rather not make that call. Because even though I can try to convince others or even myself that my isolation is a choice, and maybe it is, but often it wasn't the choice I would have made for myself. It just kinda happened. I do not even pretend to believe that the reason I had to take a cab home from the hospital was that everyone else was just too busy.

Do I really want to be reminded the fact that after 36 years on this planet, I still cannot think of a single person I could tryst to be there in case of emergency. Not a single person one. No emergency contact number, no permanent home address. Even if I could think of someone to call, who among them could I possibly trust to take care of Spotty? Shit-- I cannot even think if anyone who would even notice that my car had not moved -- or maybe that I had.

This concerns me more than I could possibly let on... who will know to check on Spotty? Who would notice? It is not her fault that I do not play well with others. No one would notice at all-- well not until that is that I have something they need. Something other than me.

Everybody calls me in crisis. In addition, repeatedly, I come running. But sometimes I would just rather be alone. In silence. In White Noise. Where I am safe. Where I am free. Where I am trapped and where I am completely and utterly alone.

Other times that same fear and isolation prompts me to runaway. Just run. I do not know where; do not why; just run. Therefore, I can be alone in a strange city where it is actually okay for me to be alone. It is easier to remove myself from the social circles of days gone by, high school reunions, Family or College re-unions....

Though I have read quite a bit about the physiology associated with the "fight or flight" instinct-- I still do not know if I am running towards something or away from another.

I am, and always have been, "a person without a country." I am a woman without a home. Even as an adult, I still felt Homeless at Home. (Durant, 2002)

So I moved as far as I could from the obvious places one might expect me to find me. I am definitely a "New Yorker," but only in spirit and in attitude. Therefore, I really cannot go home again. That simply is not an option. In addition, even if I were invited to go to one of four possible high school reunions, what would be the point? What for? To be reminded yet again how much potential I used to have?

Why bother going back to the "glory days" of football uniforms and cheerleader skirts? Is our desire to participate in the juvenile, yet ritualistic tradition of seeing how well we measured up against our peers? Is the competition over yet, or are we still waiting to see who has the most toys, the biggest diamond, or the prettiest trophy wife after all is said and done? Are those events driven by our desire to see how far come or how far others have fallen? To see that the girl who fucked my boyfriend in the tenth grade is now wearing his ring? To listen to my sorority sisters who still gossip about eating disorders and drug problems?

Life is sometimes like a car wreck, you do not want to look, but you cannot turn seem to turn away. And yes, secretly, deep down inside, we are a bit relieved if not happy that it happened to someone else instead of ourselves. Yep, no question: better him then me!

So for everyone out there who recently promised to help before, during, and after the surgery was scheduled, you can all breathe a sigh of relief... You need not worry that I might actually take you up on that promise.

If you do not know me well enough to know how difficult it is for me to ask for anything, then clearly you would be the last person I want to see when I wake up the hospital.

I do not care if it is breast cancer or a broken toe-- you are not welcome here. I do not call during a crisis. Not because I am strong, not because I am brave, and not because I am weak. [Simply because I am not that person. I am not stoic, I am not brave, and I am just not that person!

If or when I am in trouble, disappointment and broken promises is the very last thing I need or want. Even if it out of some misplaced sense of pity or superficial concern. I have been in trouble before. I know what to expect. I am certainly old enough, and apparently smart enough to have learned the rules of the game by now. So if you catch me feeling sad, lonely, or just plain sorry for myself, take comfort in knowing that I expect you to walk away-- much like you have in the past.

And do not worry, it is okay to think to yourself, better me than you.

So instead, I find it is far better to drown myself in White Noise then baby bullshit and pure stupidity.

To distract myself with fancy websites, useless information, self-reflection, loud music... Fancy gadgets, the newest widgets, and everything else that completely distracts us from the reality of our existence.

To keep us from realizing that we may actually be completely alone in this world and maybe even in the next one too...

It is easier to fake a smile and go about my merry way than to be confronted with the fact that nobody gives a shit about how I feel or what I've been doing, unless, of course, I have something the need.

Something of value, something material. Something concrete. Something that can be sold or something that can be used. Something, of course, other than me.

Because sadly, what gets lost in translation, is the very fact that I am something of value. Something to love. Something to hold on to. Someone who will stay by your side even if it hurts me to do so.

The one thing you will never know is just how much it hurts to watch you walk out the door. Especially when I knew it was coming, or perhaps maybe the only way it could ever have been.

I think I am done.

You can come, you can go-- whenever you like. Eventually I do smarten up-- and the one time you come knocking; I may just not bother to let you in.

Yes-- White Noise.