Archive for June, 2012

I Heart Buffy

Posted in Chronicles of chrazy (sic) on June 29, 2012 by tom

I don’t know why, but I was thinking about Buffy today. You know, the eponymous heroine of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

What a shit job she has. Not only does she have to worry about high school, living with a single mom and (SURPRISE!!!) a sudden sister, but she has to go out every night, kill vampires, fight demons, and date boys. She didn’t ask for this. It’s not like she went and applied for the job, like one would do at Wendy’s or something, and she doesn’t get paid. Plus, she gets the crap kicked out of her every night.

Her friends are helpful, when they can be, and Willow is as cute as a bug. But it’s always Buffy who has to do the slaying.

She has Giles nagging her constantly, looking up stuff in books. “Well, Buffy, what you’ll need to do is climb inside this demon’s intestines, look for the emerald of JKS:LDFJDS, retrieve it,  then crawl your way out through the demon’s ass, at which point you may stab it with a trident.” Giles, of course, can’t do this, because demons are especially angered by tweed.

I was thinking about Buffy in part because I watch “Buffy” on, at least till I can order the series on DVD.

The other reason is that I empathize with Buffy. Sadly, I’m not 17 and hot with mad vampire slaying skills. But she never asked for this job. She didn’t ask to be “The Slayer,” The One from her generation. (Although, there were others: the opening credits lied).

I didn’t ask to host the International Crazylimpics in my head. Granted, my head is big enough for the crowds, but I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this, and I would prefer not to have it.

However, I have friends and family who do their best to support me, even if they are occasionally scared shitless, and have no idea what I do or why I do it. Also, like Buffy, half the time, I’m just winging it, making it up as I go along.

My “Giles” is Dr Borgia. He’s the genius with all the books. He knows what’s going on, and he works his damnedest to tell me what weapon to use against what demon. It’s hit or miss, just like Buffy. Sometimes there is  trial and error. He put me on a med that he says has worked for all the patients he’s used it on, except one. Guess who’s numero dos?

For most of my life, I’ve had depression that was perfectly manageable: take a pill a day, and it’s gloomy-be-gone. I’ve had times where it was worse than others, but I fought my way through it–same as Buffy has some weeks where she’s more bruised and battered than others.

This time, I feel like I’m in The Hellmouth. It is indescribably unpleasant–“horrible” I reserve for patients with cancer, etc–and it’s proving to be an absolute bitch to fight. In the end, I’ll kick its ass…or it’ll suck me into hell forever to be torn apart by demons and monsters and shit.

I mean, in the end, I’ll kick its ass. And I’ll live to fight another day. And I’ll marry Tara and Willow

PS: Spike was cooler on his worst day than Angel was on his best.


Where Your Narrator Nearly Goes Postal

Posted in Chronicles of chrazy (sic) on June 28, 2012 by tom

This is kind of an ironic term, since I have been using the hell out of the US  Postal Service, and they have done a wonderful job for me. It’s even a delight to go to the Post Office, stand in line briefly, then have them tell me how much postage I’ll need. The beauty is, on most of the packages, the postage costs more than the gifts inside.

Anyway, I love the postal service.

A couple weeks ago, I started having little episodes where I would feel angry over things that didn’t normally anger me. Things like spilling ice cubes on the floor. Mild grr. As my Psychiatrist has adjusted my medicine–as of tonight, we’re now doubling my Lithium WOO-HOO–this has grown into severe attacks of rage. Yesterday, I spilled silverware on the floor, as I tried to be helpful and empty the dishwasher. I was alone in the house. I swore loudly and theatrically. I got to use what my friend Kellee calls my “scary evil boom voice.” A few moments later, I was trying to empty an ice chest, and I dumped a huge amount of water on the floor. Evil boom voice again.

What I’ve discovered, as my insanity worsens, is that I’ve started to have swearing fits more like Richard Burton. (Forward to 30 seconds)

Don’t listen to all of it, but when he bellows, by the gods, he bellows. And that’s what I’m doing.

I feel like a banjo string that’s been tuned four notes too high, like one pick on it will cause it to break. It’s not a good way to feel.

And God help anyone who sets me off. I will go all Richard Burton on them.

Today, I went to my therapist for our standing 3pm appointment. He called me last week on Wednesday to say he was on vacation, and thus would miss our long-standing Thursday 3pm appointment. However, he would be back next week–which means, by any possible interpretation of the English language, TODAY–at our usual time. So today, I was in the waiting room promptly at 3pm. I sat in the waiting room for 40 minutes. No therapist. I left him a note: “You should never make somebody with MANIC RAGE ISSUES WAIT 40 DAMN MINUTES FOR AN APPOINTMENT. I will call you at some point when it’s convenient for ME, and we will set up an appointment that I will expect to be ON TIME!  Tom S”

This is overreaction. I get that. I also shouldn’t have written it on the waiting room wall in permanent magic marker.

Well, I didn’t really do that. I wrote on the back of an intake form and left it on one of the chairs.

Shockingly–not–he called shortly after I got home and took two milligrams of Xanax. My dad brought the phone to my room. (knock-knock) “Yes?” “Phone for you.” “Who is it?” “It’s ______ the shrink.” “I will not talk to him now. If you hand me the phone, I will hang up immediately without a word. Another option,  you may hang up the phone on my behalf, which would save me turning around from my computer, or finally, you may explain to him that for me that I will call him whenever (and IF ever) I deem it convenient to me. I care not either way.”

My dad doesn’t do things like that.  He talked to the shrink. The shrink told my dad he was on vacation, and that last week, when he’d called from his vacation, he said that we’d meet again July 5th. I believe I looked at my dad and said, “Oh, horsepenis he said that. I’m seeing a zillion doctors, and I put appointments in my phone, so I’ll be reminded. I’m seeing doctors within a 75 mile radius. He no more told me July 5th than he told me CHRISTMAS. He messed up, and he lied about it.”

My dad wisely remembered some yardwork he need to go do.

One positive thing, by the way, is that I get this insane glare when I’m having a manic rage attack, and I can cuss at my parents. I try not to abuse it, but desperate times call for Richard Burton-voiced profanity.

The irony is that I dealt with competence today. I have been dealing with my insurance company, Aetna, and they have been reviewing updated medical information sent by my doctors. They called me with the details, and said they’d forward them to HSN immediately. I left a message with the proper HSN person, and she called me back. I get paid next Friday. At midnight. When it’s supposed to hit.

I’m calm now. I don’t know if it’s my self-calming techniques, or the 2mg of Xanax (making 3mg in 3 hours). I’m betting on my amazing self-calming…on the Xanax.

This illness angers me, because NOTHING angers me. Normal Tom doesn’t get “I want to destroy this office” angry, EVER. I deal with psycho yelling people on the phone at work, and I never get angry. I sit and play with my baseball–two-seamer, four-seamer, circle change, slider–and I’m fine.

Now, I feel this incredible, unstoppable anger for seemingly no reason. ‘

It’s my chemicals. I know that. My chemicals are waaaaay fucked-up. I called the Psychiatrist, Dr Borgia this afternoon. His receptionist said he would return my call after 5:30. He returned my call at 6:05. He asked how I was doing, and I explained that I was having the rage things a lot more. He said to double up on the lithium, and to keep taking my Lamictal and Xanax, and weaning off the Pristiq. He called in fresh prescriptions of Xanax and Lithium.  He and I talked at 6:05pm. At 7:17pm, I received an e-mail from Walgreen’s advising that my scrips were ready.

I got pissed because there was a miscommunication between my therapist–whom I like–and me–whom I really don’t like at the moment. I wrote him a truly vitriolic note, and I refused his phone call. I’m being an angry asshole.  But it’s how I feel. I feel like an angry asshole. I can’t fucking help it.

My parents were speaking to me briefly, and I shared something that had just popped into my head: if I were still drinking, I would be beating the shit out of  a lot of people, and probably be in jail. This is because I would have no check on my rage, no little guy in my frontal lobe pulling back on the brakes, going, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO! FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY, STOP!!!!!” That guy would’ve been numb, and the rage center would have taken control.

To tell you the truth, I’m scared. This is the most messed up my brain has ever been. I don’t know if I’ll be fixed enough to go to work next month. I don’t know if fI’ll ever be fixed enough to go to work ever again. It’s some scary shit.

With Fournier’s, it was an infection. They could do surgery, give antibiotics, do wound care, and see progress. The brain is a giant glob of “WHAT THE FUCK?” Nobody knows 100% how it works, or why. My Psychiatrist is probably the smartest doctor I’ve ever seen (I’ve seen some morons), and he can’t fix it yet. But he will. I trust him. I trust he’ll find the right chemicals  someday, hopefully sooner than later.

I want to be happy tom again. I have no rage now. I am incredibly numb. This is because of all the Xanax. Three migs is a lot for a two hour period, even for Hagrid.

Thanks for the good thoughts, healing light, prayers, whatever you got.

Happy Thursday.


Damn You, Debby (w/Science info for Steve Betz)

Posted in Uncategorized on June 26, 2012 by tom

We are under the influence of Tropical Storm Debby. This is largely, in my non-meteorologist’s opinion, because I had a relationship with a Debby, and it didn’t end well. Thus, we have had countless feet of rain, and winds like freakin’ Neptune.

Okay. Let’s see what the real numbers are. At 1131pm 6/25, our winds are 30mph, with gusts to 47mph. There are tree limbs down, predictably, and some mobile homes have been opened like Spam cans. Actually, this is a bad simile, because most Spam cans are far harder to open than most mobile homes.

Debby is angry, even though our relationship was almost a decade ago. I’ve apologized, even though it was both our faults.

This is what Bay News 9 would have you believe Debby looks like right now.


They always use that § symbol for hurricanes and tropical storms. I don’t know why.

Anyway, I figured something out. Debby is NOT your standard tropical storm. She is full of spite and hatred toward me.

For example, I went out to Turtle Beach today, and I was nearly blown off my feet, it was so windy. She’d have loved that.

Just for grins, I decided to drive south on I-75, straight into the teeth of the wind, just to see how much force I had to apply to the Nimitz’s gas pedal to maintain the 70mph speed limit. It was 50,000 Newtons.  This is a lot, as Steve Betz would tell you, and it shows just how strong my legs are.  After I turned around, and drove home with the wind at my back? It was maybe 2 Newtons.

Tropical Storm Debby has taken aim square at me. Screw the Bay News 9 map above. The following shows exactly how Debby’s wind flow works:

Note how the Klystron 9000 XLT radar backs me up, only their high falutin graphics don’t bother to show the storm’s actual construction. Candy-ass Brighthouse.

As you can see, the wind gets sucked into her stringy-ass head up near the Big Bend area, then is somehow transported to her giant ass down near Charlotte Harbor. From there, her ass blows 30 to 50 or 60mph up toward me.

Happily, she doesn’t seem to know I’m at my parents’ house in Sarasota County, since my home county, Pinellas, took much more brunty crap from Debby.

She’s a tenacious pain in the ass, and will doubtless be performing the above illustrated wind flow thing for the next couple days.  She’s moving Northeast at 2 mph. That’s roughly the speed I walk through the frozen foods aisle. Good Lord.

Anyway. That’s the word from Stormland. I just hope when she gets to land, somebody drops a house on her quick.

Happy Tuesday.



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