Even My Hallucinations Are Bored

I rarely take medications. It’s not a personal vendetta against the pharmaceutical companies, although ever since the invention of “restless legs syndrome” I’ve been kind of gun-shy on their ability to cure me of anything important. I’m also not a hippie or any kind of purist, because I’ve decided if you’re willing to put as many Doritos and marshmallows into your body as I do, a few pills aren’t going to hurt anything. I’m basically just freakishly healthy. Every time I actually get sick enough to see a doctor I end up having to fill out all new forms because their computers kicked me out of the system as probably being deceased.

That makes me pretty much a lightweight in the pill-popping department, which is probably why one of the three things I’m supposed to be taking for my neck is now in the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity. I tried for several days to get used to the side effects, but I couldn’t do it anymore. The first problem was very real, vivid dreams, the kind that make you more tired in the morning than when you went to bed because your brain wouldn’t shut the hell up while you were trying to sleep. I distinctly remember waking up in the middle of the first night and walloping the crap out of my poor husband for stealing my artificial legs. What kind of A-hole steals a woman’s fake legs and hides them where she can’t get to them? (He’s just as confused by this as you are.)

The little pill deal-breaker for me was when I started hallucinating, which was clearly NOT written on the package insert as a possible side effect. I realize that hallucinations are ultimately a by-product of the owner’s subconscious, and therefore, things that are already manifested somehow in her brain. Sadly, my hallucinations were as boring as I am.

One of my first hallucinations was dryer lint all over my shirt. Jim Morrison gets to see rainbow colors and flying unicorns when he’s high, I just keep seeing fuzz all over my laundry. Another one was the feeling that my ponytail holder was sliding off my ponytail. That’ll keep those patients in rehab going nuts for hours. Possibly the only scary hallucination was a Jewish mother-in-law complaining about my cooking and my housekeeping. The joke’s on her, I don’t cook or clean and my husband’s not Jewish. I totally took her down with my verbal ninja skills.

Since the neck-curing pills aren’t working out I’ve decided to just keep leaning my head to one side like I’m deep in thought, so I’ve been practicing my pensive look. Unfortunately, the sideways head and the deep-in-thought face only convince people around me that I might be having a stroke. I don’t even want to think about the pills I’d have to take for that.

They Make Pills For That

It’s shocking how rampant hypochondria is in this country. It’s so widespread you would think one of the pharmaceutical companies would develop a pill to treat it. Just imagine the commercial campaign:
“Do you suffer from feelings of feeling ill or injured? Are you unable to sit through an evening of television viewing without relating to and developing every single symptom presented on the forty-three drug commercials you will see throughout the evening? Talk to your doctor about Urnotcrazy for the treatment of mild to moderate hypochondria. Urnotcrazy is not for everyone, especially if you suffer from feelings of pregnancy, high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, boredom, lethargy, or stupidity. Side effects may occur, including development of actual symptoms of actual diseases.”

Hopefully it will never come to that, but we have started to throw around medical terms without any basis. Of course, we’ve had school children who toss the word “retarded” into everyday conversation to indicate that something is stupid, as in, that shirt is so retarded. “Lame” has been used in much the same way. I never realized it was a problem that your shirt was unable to walk.

But now adults have dragged the medical dictionary into their outlooks on life. I’m more than tired of hearing fully developed adults claim that they are “a little bit depressed today.” Really? Overnight and without warning, you developed a chemical imbalance that is preventing the synapses in your brain from doing their thing? Holy crap!

Now, college-educated people will forget to bring their grocery lists with them to the store and whine, “It’s just my A.D.D. acting up.” Maybe this is why we’ve started building walk-in medical clinics in strip malls, just to encourage these quick-and-easy diagnoses that everyone seems to have.

My favorite, though, has to be the fully-grown and supposedly capable adult I met for a work event. Her bio information clearly stated that she has Asperger’s syndrome. It also states that her ex-husband, her current boyfriend, and her son all have Asperger’s as well. First, let me tell you, if you ever go visit her house DO NOT DRINK THE WATER. There’s something wrong with the well at her house if that many people come to the property and end up with Asperger’s. Maybe Stephen King can write a book about this lady, where she opens up a bed-and-breakfast with the sole intent on genetically altering people with the lemonade.

I met the woman, got one question out of my mouth, and met the real crux of the problem with her diagnosis. Not only had she self-diagnosed, she was also sadly mistaken in her official diagnosis, which even the best of doctors can do when dealing with an inexact science like psychiatry. This woman didn’t have Asperger’s, she was just a bitch. Pure and simple, she’s just a hateful, thoughtless spewing person with absolutely no filter on her mouth. That’ll be $630 for my services. You’re welcome.

I’ve therefore decided if everyone else can lay claim to sundry ailments without any kind of rational basis whatsoever, I am now afflicted with M.A.D., or Multi-Attentive Disorder. Yeah, I totally just made that up. The serious diagnosis of M.A.D. means that I’ve become so conditioned in this environment we live in that if I don’t have two televisions going, my cell phone ringing, a pot boiling over on the stove, and three kids talking to me (which is really weird because I only have two kids), I can’t concentrate on anything. You can’t know the pain I endure of sitting on my porch overlooking my serene back yard in the early morning, hearing only the birds chirp while I drink coffee; it’s brutal. I can’t concentrate on anything that I have to do when I’m sitting there in the quiet. It’s gotten so bad that when I lie in bed in the dark at nine pm, I immediately fall asleep. I can’t even stay awake long enough to focus on my to-do list for the next day. Fortunately, I’ve sought help for this and scientists are creating a pill as we speak.