A Wild Hair

Well, the tribe has spoken—not one person I’ve talked to about yesterday’s inspiration approves of it in the least. They all said (in so many words) that I’ve just got a wild hair up my arse and need to let go of those thoughts pronto, so maybe it’s NOT such a hot idea after all. As one friend put it, I would really hate to have to tell Dr. Awesomesauce about it should the experiment go sideways and I wind up flying-off-the-walls manic. And another friend sees the idea itself as a sign of incipient mania, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.

I do have to confess that it’s hard to be outside working in the yard on a day like this and not yearn for the slightest touch of hypomania to give me more energy and make weeding more enjoyable. As it is, I have to watch how much time I spend out in the sun, because a couple of my meds make it easy to get dehydrated and woozy—that’s why I’m on the computer now, instead of out there where I really would rather be. Another reason to cut down…..but not yet, as I promised my friends.

Besides, I’ve got a few areas on my skin that are sort of suspicious-looking. They’re probably nothing but the kind of lesions older people get (and isn’t THAT a lovely thought), but I don’t think I want to add to the ones I’ve already got. I know I should have them looked at, but now that I’m without health insurance again it’s going to have to wait until I see my primary care doc in July. Not being a dermatologist, he probably can’t do anything about them anyway, but maybe there’s a few he could freeze off or something like that.

That’s another problem. I’m losing him this fall as he’s decided to give up his practice and become full-time director of the local hospice agency. He may be an asshole sometimes—he was the one who gave up on me after several anti-depressant trials and said I had something too serious for him to deal with—but he’s been our family doctor for over 20 years and I hate like hell to have to start all over again with one who doesn’t know me. Some of ’em don’t like to deal with patients who have mental illnesses, and I don’t want to have to explain it. At least my current doctor KNOWS I’m crazy and accepts me as I am.

And as if all that weren’t enough to worry about, Will just called from the Safeway parking lot to let me know the car won’t start, and it’s not the battery. He thinks it’s some thingie that sits on top of the starter. Bless his heart, he tries so hard to talk to me about automotive stuff, but it’s like explaining existentialism to the cat: I am what I call studiedly stupid about cars. I don’t WANT to know how the hoojaflobbets connects to the dooflotchee. All I want to know is HOW MUCH IT’S GOING TO COST.

The timing couldn’t be much worse. We aren’t flat broke yet, but this will probably put the icing on the cake. Guess this really isn’t a good time to cut down on Zyprexa after all!