Escargoing Out Of My Fucking Mind

Okay, I'm coming out of the closet.

Every now and again, for no discernible reason, I, um, go crazy.

I get depressed. Not in a "deeply saddened Applebee's took Dulce de Diabetic Coma cheesecake off the menu" kind of way. Not even in a "rear-ended Hummer while absentmindedly picking nose; now gushing blood on Climatronic system while neckless troglodyte punches your hood" kind of way.

Nope. I get horrifically, heartbreakingly, makes-Eeyore-look-like-Richard-Simmons type-depressed. When I'm in the gray, smothering embrace of a really bang-up depressive episode, it doesn't take a professional to see that mine is not the sanest of membranes.

Observer: "Wow, look at the sun shining behind those clouds!"
Me: "Fuck the sun."

Now, why would I bad-mouth the celestial body responsible for strawberries, daisies and, y'know, our planet NOT being a barren, ice-encrusted wasteland?

Clearly, because I need drugs.

My brain gets sick sometimes. All sorts of whiz-bang medications exist which not only effectively control this particular illness, but also sound like science fiction characters (I like to imagine them battling serotonin reuptake with lil' bitty light sabres). Seroquel! Effexor! Cymbalta! Obi-Wan Kenobi! Oh, wait.

So do I take my daily dose of sanity religiously, pausing before I swallow to give thanks to modern medicine?

Well... no.

I'm not sure if it was due to a desire to be a macho, pill-shunning Chuck Norris type (roundhouse-kicking dopamine in the head until it wishes it were never endogenously secreted!) or plain old self-delusion, but two months ago, I went off my meds.

Now, wait just a ding-danged minute here. Would someone afflicted by ANY OTHER illness try to delude themselves like that regarding their condition? Imagine someone emphatically insisting, "My pancreas is FINE! It produces PLENTY of insulin! Matter of fact, my islets of Langerhans are the BIGGEST YOU'VE EVER SEEN!"... before thudding to the floor in a diabetic coma.

Silly, huh? Diabetics can't control their bodies like that. And neither can I.

This has been one of the saddest, weirdest, most hilarious weeks of my life. It's been my own weepy version of "The Jerry Springer Show". Thankfully, no folding chairs have been thrown at my head, unless you count the metaphorical Chair of Enlightenment.

I'm hoping I've learned my lesson. Praying, actually, in my own heathenish way (side note: I once wore a t-shirt emblazoned with "HEATHEN" to high school. About fifty people asked, "Who's Heather?" New Jersey public school system, hurrah!). Because otherwise, it'll all have been for naught. And oh, what a ride "it" has been.

---

Know this: I sleep around. I don't require dinner before dessert (although yuppified, proscuitto-strewn pizza never hurts). I'm easy like Sunday morning.

I refuse to be ashamed or defensive about this. I really, truly enjoy sex. I spent much of my youth picking out paint chips at Home Depot, choosing between "Sun-Speckled Wheat Field" and "Ever-So Slightly Burnt Waffle" rather than "Your place or mine?" During the three days per week I'm not Official Mama and Sippy Cup-Refiller to the Stars, I jog, I read, I eat out and, yes, I have sex. And to answer the inevitable question: I play it hellaciously safe. I will even bust out my old-school skillz to expound:

Wrappin' it like Christo
Spreadin' nonoxynol like Crisco
Even if they got bad pests
I be stayin' clean as a palimpsest

Ahem.

Shortly after moving to the city, I met a gentleman I dubbed "Mr. Snail", due to his charmingly shy nature. It soon became apparent that Mr. Snail wasn't shy in every way, and he became my casual hookup of choice. He was funny, intelligent, thoughtful, respectful... a genuinely decent, delightfully smutty guy. Although ours was a strictly "no strings" relationship, we enjoyed one another's company and had many fine conversations as well as licentious tussles.

If you can't see where this is going... well, I suggest you go see a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. It'll be FULL of surprises. Will Jack Testosterino manage to save the world from zombies/nuclear warheads/meteors/nuclear warhead-stuffed meteors controlled by zombies who apparently possess aeronautical engineering degrees? You just NEVER KNOW!

---

Know this, too: a week ago, I turned twenty-five. The day the ol' odometer rolled over, I woke up unexpectedly and catastrophically depressed. It took me close to an hour to get out of bed; J.Q. was delighted to spend that time crawling around the big bed, poking me in the eyeball and cackling, "Ahhh-EEE!" I'm not even going to TELL you how he identifies my nose.

Eventually, I determined it was in the best interests of my vision and sanity to Get the Fuck Up. I busied myself with party preparations... slicing mushrooms, making ice, resting my head against the wall and weeping pitieously. It was all very Serious Adult Novel-ish, actually... discontent and crudite! Mental illness and creme fraiche, whizzed and the Cuisinart and scooped up with the Baguette Rounds of Conformity!

The party itself was lovely... good company, excellent risotto, preternatually cute babies. I mixed plenty of drinks and tickled plenty of bellies (for the Big and Little people, respectively; no gin 'n Enfamils were served) but felt oddly "flat" for the duration. My sister Sarah, sensing that I wasn't my usual ass-kicking, name-taking self, stuck around after the last guests trickled out. We sat on my futon, listening to my birthday CDs and discussing Important Sisterly Things... namely, men. Sarah had recently ended a tumultuous three-year relationship and was eager to slap on a mitt and resume playing the field.

"I wish I could find a cool guy to just hang out with, y'know?", she said, "Nothing serious... just to see what it's like to have fun again."

Maybe it was the glass of "Fleur de Stainless Steel Vat" wine I'd been sipping.
Maybe it was Marilyn Manson shrieking nihilstic directives from my speakers.
Maybe all of those syllogism-heavy tests were inaccurate, and I'm not actually a gifted child.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was depressed.

"You should go hang out with Mr. Snail," I said, "He lives pretty close to here, and once you get him to open up, he's a load of fun."

"Er... wouldn't that be, well, extremely weird for you?" said Sarah.

"Eh, I don't think so. And if so? Screw it," I said, employing that ever-stellar "depressed person logic". Unwise choices? Global upheaval? Making your cell phone play a snippet of Joy Division every time it rings? Screw it.

Sending your younger, thinner, prettier, flirtier sister out for drinks with a man on whom you've developed a little bit of a crush?

Screw it. And screw that stupid sun, too.

---

I've gotta say, all parties behaved with admirable tact and compassion. Well, except me. I more or less lost my shit. But I'm MENTALLY ILL! Isn't that good for at least one "Get Out of Emotional Train Wreck Free" card? No? Well, damn. I'll bet if I was muttering to my hair and sheathing my appliances in aluminum foil, you'd cut me some slack.

The first text message came while I was strolling around MegaBookstore.

"Not sure about appropriate etiquette here", wrote Mr. Snail, "But Jul... I really like your sister."

I sank into one of MegaBookstore's granite-like chairs, the kind specifically designed to prevent you from loitering and treating the place like some kind of frickin' lending library. This hasn't stopped me; I'm willing to risk ass-related nerve damage if it means not paying $28 for a hardcover.

"Oh... well," I typed, brain whirring, back aching, "You kids have fun, then."

It soon became apparent that, due to my brilliant strategy of "not telling him or alluding to it in any way", Mr. Snail had been utterly unaware of my micro-crush... and, despite enjoying my company, had harbored no reciprocal feelings.

It was kinda like firing a bullet into a room full of nitroglycerin vapors.

"Are you going to the Unlovable Place?" said Kateri as I sniffled into the other end of the phone, "Do NOT do that, Jul! Don't do it!"

Statement of objective fact: no relatively normal, sane man has ever been smitten with me. Not the boyfriends, not the husband, not some random dude standing in line at the Stop 'n Shop. But that's okay, right? I'm young, I'm somewhat unique, I'll one day find my own level and live in a beautiful world full of Oscar Wilde quotes and foie gras on toast points... right?

Wrong, hissed my brain. You're broken. You will not be loved. Not now, not ever.

I had not only gone there, I'd donned an snorkel and flung myself in head-first.

---

Thank G-d, Buddha or random chance for my friends and family. Oh, and my casual hookups... who, despite not liking me "that way", were still kind enough to visit and attempt to cheer me up.

"I can just disappear, if you want," said Mr. Snail, burying his head in his hands. "I feel like such a complete ass."

"Not your fault," I sniffled, clutching a throw pillow to my chest, "Although it is your fault for not being a dick about it. Now you're the hot, funny, NICE guy who doesn't want me."

"Oh, jesus," groaned Mr. Snail, "Jul, don't even do that to yourself."

"I'm glad Sarah's going to be with a nice guy," I muttered, staring at the carpet, "Kind of takes the sting off of being alone and losing my favorite booty call. Oh, wait: no, it doesn't." After an hour of similarly cheery proclamations, I shooed him out of my apartment.

Poor Mr. Snail.

"I don't have to date him!", said my sister, "If it's going to make you sad, I'll kick his ass to the curb!"

"If, after all this, you DON'T date him," I said, "I will hunt you down and kill you. You'll have a head start, though, since I can't see to get up off the couch."

It was my friend A. - wise, compassionate, endlessly supportive and similarly afflicted - who finally managed to crack my miserble candy shell.

"If you are off antidepressants, get back on something, pronto," she wrote. "Yes, you are one tough mofo, but when there are weapons at your disposal, you are not weak for using them. This is not like childbirth without an epidural; it's more like ... living without shoes. Yes, you get used to the cuts and callouses and occasional frostbite, but it still sucks every time you take a step."

Two days after the shit hit the fan, I left a message with my GP. Although I stopped short of screeching, "I NEED DRUGS NOOOOOW!", it was still persuasive enough to ensure that a bottle of Wellbutrin was in my clammy little hands within two hours. I'm good like that. Shit, I could probably convince John Calvin to knock back a few.

Perhaps that's the meds talking.

---

I took my first dose on the bus, practically chewing off the child-protective cap in my eagerness. While the 'butrin itself will take a few weeks to work its magic, taking steps to address the problem seemed to soothe my inflammed brain tremendously.

I'm still vacationing in Unlovable Family Resort Area... but now, I seem to be able to stay in the shallow end. I have spent enough time in this place to justify buying a time-share. Despite the abundance of freaky anthropomorphic animal heads, I can't help but feel Disneyland would be more fun.

Sarah and Snail are utterly charmed by one another. In an effort to cheer myself up, I'm compiling a list of "Things I Have Which Sarah Doesn't". So far, I've got "adorable - if somewhat bitey - child" and "four inches of height... let's see you reach that jar of beets on the top shelf, bitch! Oh, wait... your boyfriend would probably do it for you."

It comes in fits and spurts. Right now, it's a lovely day. The Baptists down the street are singing hymns and cooking ribs. I'm now eight tablets closer to being able to coexist with my own thoughts. The little cream-colored tablets make me oddly happy. They're the prospect of feeling good about life and myself, formed into a disk and stamped with a "G" (supposedly for "Glaxo"; I prefer to think it's for "Good god, you're insane!"). It's a small thing, but it's a start.