Emo Kids Have Cool Hair

The Rage Monkeys are dancing in my brain. Methinks I'm going to haul off and hurt someone.

Anger has never been my thing. I'm not one to get angry, though I spend a lot of time and energy in being "put out." I'm put out by the wackos that cut me off in traffic. I'm put out by the dorks in the Starbucks line that don't know how to order their drink. I'm put out by my neck that decided to spaz this morning, leaving me crippled and hunched like Quasimoto. I'm put out by the BenGay Ultra Strength Pain Relieving Patch that isn't working. But mostly I'm put out by myself for being ass-crazy and unable to stop myself from inflicting the Crazy on others.

Yesterday the Crazy began. I was feeling... well, MILITANT, to put it mildly. I was angry for no good reason and looking for a fight. I walked into work and felt the dismal mcdismalness descend upon my soul. I felt the bile of dissatisfaction rise in my throat. I felt the ants of madness stirring beneath my skin. I felt the flourescent lights overhead sucking the ever-livin' life out of my soul.

I wanted to go home.

I never wanted to go back to work.

I wanted to wound someone with a sharp pencil.

I began a litany of complaints to Mr. Mystery (who was home sick, thanks to my intoxicative germs that I lovingly bestowed upon him via airborne cough cooties and saliva). I wanted to pillage and plunder. I wanted to resign from my job, become a waitress at Hooter's, and eat lots and lots of chicken wings.* I wanted to move to London. I wanted to be British. I wanted my own Sonic Screwdriver.

Mr. Mystery took it all in stride, responding to my psychotic IMs with gentle "I'm sorry's," and "things will get better's." To these I may have replied with "yeah yeah's" and "no fucking way, the world is coming to an end's." I'm not sure. That part is hazy.

When I thought that things couldn't get worse, they did. Something inside of my brain lurched, burped, and then stalled. I lost all control. I was an out of control car, careening for the Jersey wall. And since I was going to crash and burn anyway, the Crazy stepped in to make sure the fire burned bright and shiny.

I IM'ed Mr. Mystery and picked a fight.

(In my defense, my goal wasn't to *really* pick a fight. In his defense, it never turned into a fight. He's far too even-keeled and patient to let my argumentative pandering get the best of him. Nosiree, bob. He's the emotionally healthy yin to my emotionally unhealthy yang.)

I brought up a long-since-closed subject. I moped and sulked when I didn't get the answer I wanted. I tried different angles, looking for a weak spot in his argument. I poked, I prodded, I pouted. He held firm like the stronghold that he is. He even refrained from calling me names, which I justly deserved.

Not more than two minutes after the conversation ended, I was repentent. I was also mortified.

An abashed canary called her man on the way home. I mumbled my way through an apology, tried to explain why I had lost my freakin' mind, felt even worse when he was so damn understanding.

I try not to play this card unless it's completely true, which, in this case, it is: being chemically imbalanced sucks, y'all. Those of you who have never experienced the instantaneous "switch" of the brain probably can't understand the lack of control one has when their internal circuitry goes on the fritz. Irrationality, though recognizable, is hard to reign in. I know that I am losing it, I can acknowledge that I am going over the edge, I can see myself scrambling and taking others down with me, but I'll be damned if there is anything I can do about it.

By the time I pulled into my driveway last night, I was completely depleted of energy. My brain literally hurt. I crawled into bed and fell into a restless sleep. Around 3am, panic set in. I bolted upright in bed, hellaciously anxious for unknown reasons. I got up and paced around my living room. I locked already locked doors and windows. I checked my bank balances. I ran through the new emails on my Blackberry.

Everything was in order. Everything, that is, except me.

I don't know what is going on in my head or why my medication has chosen this time to quit working. I theorize that it has to do with the change in the weather. I hope that I can make it through without sporking my eyes out, because changing medication and/or dosages is a bitch, let me tell you. I also hope that Mr. Mystery doesn't dump my imbalanced ass for being such a royal pain in his.

In the meantime, I have invoked a new rule: when I feel the Crazy coming, I am not - UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - to IM Mr. Mystery. He says that this is unnecessary, but I disagree. One more episode like yesterday and I'm fairly certain the Rage Monkeys will start dancing in HIS head.

It's all fun and games until someone's tires get slashed. Remember that, people. Remember that.

*Yes, I said CHICKEN WINGS, mah homies. I have completely and utterly fallen off of the vegetarian wagon and into a sizzling pile of meatlicious MEAT. It was an accident - at first - that I blame entirely on The Big Sister. She (with the help of P.F. Chang's Crispy Honey Chicken) is the root of all meaty evil.