Don't mind me-I'm just thinking out loud.
Well, ok, not actually OUT LOUD because then I would be just like the crazy folks around me. Although, sometimes, it seems that crazy is the new happy.
I don't know if people are really happy these days-they just have a form of mental illness that allows a prolonged manic phase. I've been trying to contract this condition almost as long as I've been trying to catch anorexia. Oh, sure, you can gasp in disgust but you probably don't have a full spectrum of sizes hanging in your closet.
But...here's the thing with people: some of us have certified, diagnosed conditions for which we are receiving treatment and medications; some of us have the same conditions, undiagnosed but self medicated. Self medication can be a lot of fun- like the time I took my husband's cymbalta. It wasn't doing him a whole lot of good so I didn't think it would have too much effect on me, either. The paperwork his doc gave him said the meds could take one to four weeks for results to become noticeable. I cant' say why I bothered to take one 60 mg pill, except that I get a little envious of people who are allowed to have mood altering drugs. So, I shook one out of the bottle and swallowed it. Later that day, I dissolved into a fit of the giggles for no reason I can pinpoint. It was a little difficult to control my mirth but I managed to get it handled. After I stopped giggling, I had a really nice day. My face probably looked like that yellow smiley button we all know and love. Except without the yellow.
So I decided to repeat the whole sequence again the next day. Nothing. Conclusion: Cymbalta is only good once (like some men i've known in my life). Unlike Grey Goose which is good every time. I don't see why people spend so much money on mood altering drugs when vodka can do the same thing for less. And with vodka, no psychiatric evaluation is needed for a prescription.
That wasn't the point I was trying to make to myself here. My concern is that there are people right here at my job, many of whom I have to deal with directly, who have undiagnosed, untreated mental illnesses. I'm not dismissing myself but I've been aware of my conditions for some time now and although they may not be professionally diagnosed I've got the treatment part down to a science. I am talking about people who get paid to apply their insanity on the job.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, whichever is appropriate, these people do not know that their "condition" is obvious to the outside observer. For instance, Lester (not his real name) must think he looks completely normal when he says that the government wants to pay him to write a book about all of his covert experience with explosives. Yes! Let's put this guy in a vehicle with special needs passengers. In a VEHICLE, people! I wouldn't let this guy drive me to the portapotty at the corner, let alone put him in charge of transporting people who don't have the ability to run when they hear that their driver is either delusional or some sort of government paid assassin. I don't which would be scarier.
The bane of my existence is a woman who is so dysfunctional she actually has one of those little black clouds over her head following her everywhere she goes. Nothing ever turns out right for Lee Ann (not her real name), even though she does all the right things. There's always an insurmountable problem looming over her day which she is going to try to drop in my lap, every day, without fail, unless i can duck her before she sees me. Her insurance information isn't right. Her paycheck is short. Her uniform doesn't fit. The battery is falling out of her bus. She is in trouble with the IRS because the unemployment people didn't take enough tax out of her check. Her car has been in the shop for six months and she can't afford to get it out. And if I wanted to know any other little details of her miserable life, she's available to share. If anyone would benefit from the cessation of existence, it's this ditz.
How many people do you know who have actually gotten into an elevator that fell three floors to the bottom?
Me?
One.
How many people do you know who have run over their own foot with their car?
Me?
One.
How many people do you know who's boss tells them to please quit their job on a daily basis?
Me?
UNO!
And it's all the same afore mentioned Lee Ann (not her real name).
From the first person I see at my job every morning to the last person I have to lock out of my office in the afternoon, there is a diagnosis waiting to happen.
Or maybe its just me. Maybe I'm the diagnosis and everyone else is normal.
Maybe its normal for a grown man to leave work crying from a "tummy" ache. (Do men actually say TUMMY in public?) Maybe its normal for a boss to rant and rave for four years about that ONE TIME on his first day at the job when I asked him to unclog the toilet. Who knew he had a Cinderella complex?
I think I'll do that stuff my feelings with food thing. It's almost as much fun as vodka but with uncontrolled weight gain thrown in for a nice bonus condition!
