This is not an entry about the election, but rather the election season. Let me first just urge you to Vote! (Ladies, if it gives you a little more incentive, cute guys are always at the voting places! That’s why I vote anyway).
Anyway, like many of my kind, I was prescribed benzodiazepines for the debilitating anxiety I experienced pretty much every day when I was still drinking. The fright caused by an anxiety attack cannot be overstated. People throw it around very liberally, “I was sooo scared! I totally had an anxiety attack!”. I’m like, “Oh really? Did they lock you up against your will in the nut-house for it, too?”. So many people have similar stories about hang-over anxiety attacks that landed them in the ER. The first ER I went to just wouldn’t let me leave. They sent me to a glorified drunk tank (plants, sunshine, yoga, WHATever) for alkies and other colorful people with good insurance, a safe place for them to stay while they waited to go to some treatment facility, which was out of the question for me. Why the hell would they treat a heart attack at a rehab? I went to the ER because I was dying, not for whatever it was they were insinuating I had. I truly had no idea what I was doing there and was none too pleased about it. Ooo I was so pissed at my doctor. I got out of the hospital and called him immediately (immediately after finishing the lemon juice and vodka, that is – I was into lemondrops at the time) to scream at him. He screamed back that I am an alcoholic. I was stunned! What did he just say to ME?! I fired him that minute. The nerve on that quack – how dare! But that’s an entirely different story altogether.
I became fond of benzos. Some doctors, as you may know, over-prescribe benzos. I ate so many and still had plenty on reserve, and got into the alarmingly dangerous habit of occasionally taking way too many at once. I wasn’t trying to kill myself – it was just this kooky compulsion. So, one day, four years ago, I went with that compulsion, and woke up (luckily!) with this dull pain in my abdomen and a squishy blob so big I could feel it under my skin. I was like, “Ah shit. I’ve gone and done it this time!”. I went to the doctor… a month later. It’s funny in a sad and troubling way that, looking back, I panicked because I thought I caused physical damage from Ativan, but it never crossed my mind that I could have done any physical damage from alcohol. Denial may have spared me further anxiety – it served a purpose whether right or wrong, it was neither here nor there – that’s just how I rolled, homies. I was tempting death without realizing it, but, no worries, my body was just fine! Except for the shaking. And the vertigo. And the anxiety. And the hallucinations. Oh I Googled “brain damage” a zillion times – there was undeniably something very wrong with my brains in the clarity and perception departments – they were brittle and shaky to such distraction. There must be a reason for this condition. But what is it? What is it? What ever could it be!
Back to le lump… so, I finally took a couple of Ativan and went to the doctor and had a bunch of tests done. It turned out I had a Goodyear Blimp-sized cyst on my ovary. They remove cysts when they’re over 4cm and mine was 11cm. I do everything BIG! (<– said with jazz hands). So, they scheduled surgery for the next week or so. I wasn’t in pain – just grossed out that I had a grapefruit-sized cyst hanging off my grape-sized ovary. It’s all about fruit. But then the cyst, she twisted. PAIN. I was delirious with pain. I was in so much pain I didn’t know what to do and couldn’t figure out how to get to the ER or if I should even go to the ER, so I decided to pass out on the bathroom floor and worry about it later. Luckily again, I woke up in the morning and went right to the hospital. This was the day of the Sarah Palin – Joe Biden debate….
I spent the better part of that day delighting in a steady stream of morphine, tripping from Starlight to Moonville, on a rocket to The Fourth Dimension (name that musical). Surgery was moved up a few days, I was sent home with a pile of Percocet, and I made an ill-advised but predictable stop at the liquor store. At that time, exactly four years ago, there’s no way I could have watched 90 minutes of winking “you betcha!”s without being drugged, so I guess the twisted cyst had good timing. Now, I am having an extraordinarily hard time putting into words how I feel about Mrs. Palin without being judgmental. I had a visceral reaction to her, as many did, but my main horror was this: she’s AQUARIUS! Why oh why oh why oh why??? We’re supposed to be peaceful and humanitarian, unwavering in our demand for fairness and famous for our open-mindedness. Anyway, I don’t even remember that debate. What happened? Was it good? Four years later, another vice presidential debate. Again, my other boyfriend Joe Biden takes to the stage. This time I am cold stone sober as he debates Mr. Eyes Without a Face, who is also… AQUARIUS! At least these two didn’t get elected (see what I did there?). You know who else is Aquarius? DICK CHENEY! But so is Abraham Lincoln. Nelissa and I are also Aquarius, and we are both gentle and sensitive and patient. OK, I can’t say that with a straight face. Nelissa is these things – I’m working on it. Funny, I visited my friend “Dandelion” the other day, and she reminded me of the first time we hung out and exchanged phone numbers. The first text I sent her I threatened to kill her over my imaginary boyfriend – she showed me the text – she was not telling tales. I was totally kidding, of course, but she was skeptical, afraid I was a psychopath, and not the peaceful and gentle Aquarius I am meant to be, and that my cats can prove I am!
But back to planets and outer space, Aquarius are meant to be just wonderful astronauts. I think maybe I’ll mail a couple of astronaut school applications to some of the aforementioned vice presidential candidates. They can take a marvelous trip to the stars, take a break from Earth for a while. It will suit their Aquarian love of adventure.
Stay tuned for Part 2…