Mr. Sensitive

June 28, 2010

Just Give Me The Armor And No One Gets Hurt

Filed under: Withdrawal War — lbej @ 14:28
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I went to hell last year, which turns out to be the wing of the psych ward where you have to stay if you’re admitted when there are no beds in the good wing.  Funny story: do you know the one good thing hell imports from the outside world?  Coca-Cola.  It’s the truth.  They don’t have enough for everyone, because it’s, you know, hell, so you have to fight for the Coke if you want it.  You really want it, too, trust me.  Things you can get in prison you can’t get where I was.  If you don’t believe me, go there yourself and see at all the people chewing on plastic nicotine dispensers (we called them puffers) because they can’t get cigarettes.  My family sent me to hell because they had to, because it was the only way to stop me.  It was sort of like when Buffy stabbed Angel and sent him to hell at the end of Season Two.  It was a lot like that, actually.  When you watch that episode you’re sad for Angel because he really doesn’t know in that moment what he did to deserve it.  What he did, of course, is torture and murder a lot of people, but he doesn’t remember that, and his bewilderment is very real.  But it sucks even more for Buffy because she remembers everything, good and bad, and she has to ignore all the good to do what she has to do to save the world.  Man, BuffyFirefly is the best show.  The people need to face facts.  So to recap: I went Angelus for a while; my family attacked me; they couldn’t save me but they did manage to damn me; and Nathan Fillion will always be Johnny from Two Guys, A Girl, And A Pizza Place no matter how many projects Joss Whedon casts him in.

Hell is not so much for the hustle and bustle.  There’s a lot of time to think, and I found that it was really hard to perform my customary intellectual flanking maneuvers on account of the limited room I’d left myself, which was in turn on account of the elephant.  I couldn’t ignore it.  If the people who love me the most decided that the best thing to do for me was send me to hell, and they were right, it meant one thing: failure.  I had failed so catastrophically that I found myself physically trapped in the psych ward until a doctor saw fit to release me, and yet that state of affairs was appreciably better for me and everyone else than had I been in my own house.  That’s a big yikes.  Figuring out that much started the long and boring recovery process, which continues on the margin to this day.  Boring is good, of course.  Boring is a much better look for me, I think, than ruddy.

When I was in hell all I had was Coke and failure, and I had to share the Coke.  There was a lot of failure, and I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do with it all.  Coincidentally, an interesting thing happened to me after my body purged itself of the alcohol, something that happened while I was still in the hospital:  I got strong again.  Not mentally, because mentally I was all over the place for months.  Physically.  Think Theoden in Two Towers after Saruman’s hold is lifted: color coming back, lameness healed, eyes refocusing, the whole thing.  I realized I wasn’t old at all, and all these chronic ailments I had for years were caused by poison.  Once the poison was gone, so were the ailments.  It was awesome.

I had to do something with all the energy, and I wasn’t allowed to do much of anything except think.  So I thought real hard.  I had failure, and I had strength, and I had time.  So I took the failure and pounded it into armor, strong and light like you can’t believe.  Fail armor.  What could anyone do to me?  Look what I did to myself—you can’t top that.  I’ve been worse than anything you can call me.  No asshole in a suit and tie can hurt me—my own family damned me to hell and I came back and thanked them.  After I was back home, crazy stuff happened, like it happens to everyone.  Stuff with my job, my kids, my wife, my mother.  I don’t want to go into it because bad stuff happens to everybody.  The bananas thing was how well the armor worked.  I felt impervious.  Not invincible, but so much better than before that it’s disorienting.  I don’t feel numb in the fail armor, I want to stress that.  Numbness was the strategy that landed me in hell in the first place and is a no-go.  I feel everything, it’s just hard for the normal slings and arrows to do any damage.

Then the damnedest thing happened last week: I quit Lexapro, and that tricksy bastard absconded with my armor.  I’m struggling because nothing was penetrating and now everything is.  I cried watching “The Proposal” on Sunday.  Hard.  I know my fail armor is safe the same way Sauron knew the Ring hadn’t been destroyed when he awoke in the Third Age.  I’m hoping I’m going to stumble on it straightening up around the house.  I hope Katie didn’t accidently sell it in last Saturday’s yard sale like she sold my patio stones.  I just want to put the word out: if you see my armor, please send it home.  It looks awesome, I know, but it’ll burn if you put it on.  It burns me, too, but it’s supposed to.

If my fail armor is wherever the remote, all the pens and pencils, and the duct tape have gone, Reagan is going to be in so much trouble.

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