Tag Archives: paranoia

Fuck you, Meredith Gray

I know that I promised a recap of the start of my first life switch, but I lied. Hey, at least I’m still alive!

Instead of not posting anything, or offering some sort of space filler like a picture of kittens spooning, I have decided to give you a glimpse into my insanity. Week two starts tomorrow, so I expect the promised update by tomorrow night.

In the mean time, enjoy my crazy.

A big part of why I am so gung-ho about fully adopting a “fitter, happier, more productive” me is in the vain attempt that maybe, just maybe I’ll stop being a lunatic.

Exhibit A: http://www.collaborativenation.com/melissa-kleckner/51-from-augury-to-agita-divine-hypochondriasis-and-how-i-learned-to-embrace-my-crazy.html

The above link is a blog entry I wrote at a time when I was healthier about a time that I was MUCH healthier, and yet the impetus for me to write the piece came from these mini attacks I was having where I was sure I was dying. These mini attacks reminded me of some borderline psychosis I had experienced, oh, for the better part of my life.

Again, that was a “healthier” Melissa. So you can only imagine the thoughts that go through my mind now that I am in a perpetual state of feeling like a bag of old garbage that’s been left out in the rain.

I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I go through these spurts where I am far too preoccupied with death. I hyper-analyze every micro-ailment in my body and FREAK when Dr. Google immediately points to one form or another of the Big C (Laura Linney sold separately.)

Thus far, I have not made any long-term changes that could perhaps prevent (or at the very least, hold off) a dire diagnosis, because that would make sense.

No, instead I play through the telenovela scenarios of being branded with disease. The fall out of my diagnosis, and the all too “Lifetime: Television for Women” for my liking dénouement postmortem, complete with second wives and step moms.

If it’s not my own demise I am surfing for, the very heartbreaking prospects of losing one of my dear loved ones dances onto my minds proscenium arch. Though I just recently came to the conclusion that I’ve ultimately become anesthetized to death, and would probably be able to handle the demise of most people in my life with grace and humility, there are still a handful of people whose deaths would no doubt send me to some sort of tragic kingdom (long slow groan.)

Such a schizophrenic relationship with the end of life does not lend itself well to watching dramas or “very special episodes of…” For example, when a bipolar of bereaving bitch such as myself watches a show like Gray’s Anatomy, it’s not just mindless entertainment wrapped up in Emmy Award-winning schlock.

It’s a catalyst to crazy town.

When a lead character loses her husband, J is immediately in a pine box. Watch a child witness the death of her young parent, that’s my Avie observing my declining sinus rhythm.

All scenarios of heartache and loss become near inevitabilities in my life. It’s madness.

Don’t get me wrong; I know that life can change in the blink of an eye. An accident, an unexpected illness, the sudden arousal of a sleeping giant; at any moment in our lives, our lives can be over in a moment. It’s just the reality that comes with this whole being “mortal” territory, and it sucks.

Not that immortality is necessarily the answer. Save the undead fantasies for the Edward and Bella crowd (those poor, pathetic souls.) It’s just personally I’d like to get through an episode of Modern Family without the internal production of hearing that I have 6 months to live or that I lost my husband and child in a fiery auto wreck (you must have missed that episode.)

Recognizing what is entertainment and what is a normal pain or body ache could very well be the key to a long, happy, stress-free life, without the need to avoid sun exposure or drink blood.

I think it’s time that I start worrying about the fact that I watch Gray’s Anatomy to begin with and ease up on the idea that it is primetime’s answer to a soothsayer attempting to warn me of some dreadful date in the not-so-distant future.

Death comes to us all, eventually, Mary Agnes, but it won’t come in the form of one of Meredith’s melancholy monologues of misery.

Or will it?

 

 

 

Oh…and here’s a picture of kittens spooning.

Advertisements