“Have a good day sweetie.” Madelene says, as she kisses me goodbye to leave for work.
“You too, got your phone?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s on.”
“Ok, call me later.”
I walk into the bathroom to wash up. Barely seeing a thing, I put some drops in my eyes, and splashed some cold water on my face. I look up in the mirror; my face puffy from too much sleep, my eyes almost closed, and there were a few ‘pillow lines’ drawn on my cheeks. I start rubbing my face to get those pillow lines off. I can’t walk around looking like this.
“What the???” I say out loud, staring at the unknown object in the mirror.
“Where the hell did you come from?” It was a hair! On my chin! And from the length of it-- how long has this sucker been there? I immediately try to tug on it. It was so long, that I didn’t even have to pinch my two fingers together tightly to get a good grip. Forget the tweezers. This puppy was long and mean. I grabbed it with my hand, and closed my fist, and tugged hard.
No lie- this ‘chin hair’ was the size of the palm of my hand. Question remains:
“Why hasn’t anyone told me I was walking around with this long @ss hair?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, get angry, or cry! I quickly took off my shirt to make any other discoveries.
“Shweew----no chest hairs! Thank God!”
All I could think of was that old episode of Rosie O’Donnell a few years back. She had a chin hair growing a bit too long. She decided that she would put some beads on it when it got to a certain length. I should have let the hair remain on my chin, and then took a picture of it while it was beaded. Thank God I’m not single. (I may be soon)
Was my nightmare over? No.
The HGH that I was taking claimed to have a positive affect for your skin. My face was beginning to look really nice, had a certain glow, and it was much smoother. The past few days, my neck began to develop these little red bumps. I’m not talking pimples here; they look much like chicken pox. Face is clear, the neck is not. This is not good.
No HGH today. No HGH any day.
I recently found an article that said this:
"What are the dangers?That depends on when you took hGH and from what companies. Up until 1985 hGH was a human brain derived product. Unfortunately that year it was linked to Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD) which is a variant of what is now called mad cow disease.”
Lovely. So I stay away from red meat for this purpose, to only go and get it straight from the source. I’m secretly on a suicide mission here.
“After 1985 synthetic versions of hGH were developed that don't expose the user to CJD, but long-term studies pointed to other risks. Specifically a significant risk of cancer, especially colon cancer and Hodgkin's disease. This does not mean that people with medically diagnosed hormone deficiencies should stop taking hGH, but otherwise healthy people should definitely avoid it."
I’m glad I went through the process of experimenting with this hormone, so that I can be the guinea pig I always wanted to be. I had fun the first few days, but then suddenly I started getting ~out of control~ dizzy spells, where I would fall. Can I definitely say that it was from the HGH and not my sinuses or vertigo? Maybe the lump on my head? No. I have to just assume for right now that it has something to do with this product. I am stopping it today, and seeing if I have the ability to walk, instead of feeling as though I drank about ten shots of tequila.
I also noticed that my chest size has decreased. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with the measly two pounds I lost, but they did go down in size. (Or I’m just transforming into some hairy man with a goat tee.) Great. Lose weight. Decrease chest size.
Okay. Now I’m back to the agitated Deb that you all know. The person who gets upset at the slightest thing- the most sensitive soul that you can imagine. I feel it already. Something is telling me that I am not going to be a happy camper today. Hmm.
I live upstairs in an apartment above my parents. It’s quite spacious, and it’s enough for Madelene and I right now, in order to save for our own house. It’s nice, because I love my parents, and we usually have cocktail hour set at a certain time. Don’t ask. Okay—11am.
I walk downstairs to say hello to mom. I trudge down the stairs with my long work out pants and some platform flip flops on. Working at home has its benefits, no business suits. The smell of coffee was wafting through the air, almost making me feel alive again. My mother makes percolated coffee in one of those old tin pots. It’s the same one that Alice uses on the Honeymooner’s. This coffee is amazing, and yes---will put a few hairs on your chest. Hmm. (Makes me wonder about that chin hair.)
“Deb, want some coffee?” My mother says, as she walks into the kitchen.
“Oh! You made some? Great!” I say, knowing already that it’s been brewing for the last twenty minutes or so. No instant anything with my mom.
I’m finally feeling alive. Downstairs, they have two living rooms, and her bedroom is set between the both of them. I hear two T.V.s going at the same time. This is increasingly driving me insane. I try to block it out. I can’t. Two newscasters spewing out blabber at the same time about the same thing probably. My mind is flustered now. I’m agitated. I take my coffee and run upstairs to my apartment.
Ahh… Silence. Everyone knows that when they come up to my place while I am working during the day, my T.V. either has the ‘atmosphere music channel’ on, or the T.V. is off. I wonder if mom even notices that the two T.V.s are on. I wonder if she listens to both of them simultaneously getting information from two sources. She must be a talented little woman. I guess I didn’t get my A.D.D. from her. I’ll blame dad for that, and mom for the OCD. Have to blame someone for my disorders.
That leads me to therapy. Literally. Therapy is like watching grass grow, especially with my guy. He is a spitting image of the father who died on “Six Feet Under.” He wears the same long business suits, usually dark brown or back, with some brown tie on and always wears brown leather dress shoes. He is slightly balding and he is about six foot five or so. Very tall and thin.
“Oh Mad, I am so not in the mood today to sit there for an entire forty-five minutes to watch him stare at me. I just want my ativan and I wanna get the hell outa’ there!”
“He doesn’t help you?” She asks.
“Eh. I don’t know.”
He opens the door from his office and stands there, staring at me, indicating that he is ready for session. I walk in. I feel as though I’m about to attend a funeral. His entire office has three huge rooms. The first room you walk through is dark and dismal. Then he shows you the way into the room where you’ll be diagnosed and evaluated. It’s bright and shiny, and full of life. There is this huge plant that takes up almost one quarter of the room. I always sit there and touch it, to see if it’s real. I know it’s real, but who takes care of it? How did they get this monster plant in here? Okay, enough. I don’t want to waste my therapy time talking horticulture.
I sit down on the hard fake leather love seat, making a squishy, unpleasant noise. Lurch (my therapist) falls down on his plush chair and always puts his coffee right near his foot. I always wondered why he put his coffee there when he has an end table right next to him. Baffles me. He crosses his daddy long legs, then just stares at me. No smile, no anything, no comforting words—not even, “Hello.”
“So doc, what brings you in my office today?” I ask.
He starts chuckling, gets nervous, and reaches down to take a sip of his coffee. He always does this. If I ever put him in an uncomfortable situation, down he goes reaching for the java. Freak.
“So what’s new?” He mumbles, as if he just shoved a bunch of muffins in his mouth.
“I won the lottery, my sex life is great, and I’m off to by a yacht right after therapy! And you???”
What does he want me to say? Yes I have problems, but therapy is so awkward. He is an old fashioned kind of guy who knows I’m gay. He wonders why my partner has to assist me to go to therapy. She waits for me like a little angle reading boring magazines to pass the time.
“Doc, I get anxiety at night before I go to sleep. Is there anything I can do other than take a little magic pill to relieve my panic attacks?”
“Hmm…well we can increase the medication.” He mumbles.
Did he hear me? Was I speaking another language? I want to get off the ativan and start living a normal life, with no sleeping aids.
“Doc, I want to eventually get off the meds and treat my anxiety in a more efficient way, other than putting a band aide on it.”
“Well we have to keep you on the ativan, so that we can limit the amount of anxiety attacks that you have, and treat it at the same time.”
“So what do I do now? What do you suggest?” I ask.
He lifts his eyebrows up.
Where did you get your psychiatry license? (I feel like screaming at him) He doesn’t even suggest cognitive behavior therapy or any sort of relaxation techniques whatsoever.
Believe me, I tried every psychiatrist around my area. They are all booked up. The whole county must be going crazy! I need a good doctor and I can’t get one, so I stick with Lurch who absolutely has no impact on treating my anxiety disorder. He stares at me and keeps asking questions about my ex-girlfriend from years ago.
Okay. I give up. The clock shows it’s been forty-five minutes, and I am glad he is taking his third party prescription papers out.
“So two weeks?”
That’s it. No help. Just meds.
Time for a cocktail!
If you know a psychiatrist that is available in the general area of Orange County, NY—please contact me at the e-mail address provided. I need professional help. (Shut up Tara, Bleu & Lp)
If not, you can reach me at the Mid-Hudson Psychiatric Center in a few weeks.
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