Mr. Depression, Ms. Shrink and Mr. God (or Alcohol is the shit. or The Whatever Post)

I’ve written before about how I might have been suffering from a really bad case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Well, I’m 100% sure that I’m suffering from it now.

This doesn’t surprise me the least since after being prescribed antidepressants and after my psychiatrist issued a moratorium on all of my activities that involve alcohol, I’ve continued to indulge in drinking habits which doctors like my psychiatrist say is “not healthy.”

So yes, maybe I had it coming and Christ, this type of depression severely makes me infirm. Imagine working an average of eleven hours a day, getting off and coming home hoping to get a good night’s sleep but instead, you duke it out with insomnia and end up thinking and getting depressed over such mundane things as nuclear fallout, money, and who’d be the next pope.

Honestly speaking though, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about this most of the time. I mean sure, I get borderline suicidal at its worst but my preoccupation with work and pleasant thoughts such as crushing pussy or racism manage to keep it at bay.

The entire thing crumbles when my depression gets in the way of me having fun. You know how it is over the holiday season: I mean you don’t have to be a medical professional to be able to conclude that drinking an average of eleven beers a night is not the best thing to do if you’re suffering from severe depression.

Christmas eve was when the wheels really came off. What with my mighty triumvirate of depression, panic attacks and what is the medical equivalent of a restraining order banning me from being within three meters of an alcoholic drink. My neighborhood friends who know about my medical history, restrictions and the “drink until you cannot recognize basic shapes or colors” tradition we are about to engage in said something to the effect of “dude, you can have fun without drinking.” to which I responded “you guys are fucking fags. You obviously haven’t tried imbibing an entire bottle of brandy in less than an hour. Now THAT’s fun.”

[Fast forward to the next day; after my uncle found me passed out on a patch of grass outside our house and carried me to my bed. I was depressed as hell and was burning my pubes with a miniature blow torch when I woke up.]

I sent a text message to my psychiatrist telling her that although milder than the last time, my depression and panic attacks were back and asked her what I should do and if she can prescribe more Xanax for me (It’s Christmas season, I need to be ‘High and Happy as a kite.’ Come on!).

She replied that she can and asked me if I drank any alcohol after I last saw her. I said yes.

She suggested, via text message, that I should first promise her to stop drinking or else she would not give me new Xanax scripts.

Her response enraged me.

As a very stubborn man who, despite being far from what people would consider ‘healthy’, considers himself indestructible, I replied with “I don’t think so. It’s been months since I last saw you, surely there must be a pill you could give me to alleviate this stupid-ass depression I have. What do you mean you don’t think so? You’re saying the Arabs can make palm-shaped reclaimed islands yet you can’t give me a goddamn pill to make me feel better? You’re saying the Japanese can create gigantic humanoid robots with laser swords but you can’t give me a fucking pill to make my body secrete more happy hormones? No? Do you think I’m some sort of idiot? Well fuck you. How does that sound? I hope you like hearing it because here’s another one– fuck you. Can you guess what I’m thinking now? That’s right, I’m thinking of Effing Youing Seeing Kaying You.”

[I'm lying. I actually didn't have enough credits on my phone to reply to her last message. That would've been totally badass though.]

Anyway, I guess my point is that nothing, and I say again, NOTHING, would ever come between me and my alcohol. Not depression, not some chick with a medical degree, NOTHING.

I will drink. And if you try to get in my way we are going to have major problems here. And when I say “problems” I don’t mean it in a “Oh man, my pen ran out of ink” way but rather in a “Mom, who is that fat man pacing back and forth in front of our lawn with a tire wrench? And why is he stabbing our dog’s mouth with his bird?” way.

So yeah, I have a message for you, Mr. Depression, Ms. Shrink and even you, Mr. God: You are fucking with the wrong motherfucker. Do not fuck with me. Walk away while everything’s still cool. If you do decide to bring it, make sure that you bring it all. [Drama Pause] Because in the end, I will emerge [Drama Pause part 2] victorious.

Well probably not, but whatever.

Additional comments powered by BackType