I come by my anxiety honestly. My mother suffered at least one nervous breakdown – I was ten – and 50 years later my father killed himself with a handgun. Between those events, I rode the anxiety roller coaster, holding on for dear life.
To cope I’ve used several interventions: talk therapy, exercise, SSRIs. Years ago, I also tried pot. I was at a hotel in Amsterdam, filled with worry about traveling. Pot was legal there, I inhaled. And in the space of a breath, I shed anxiety like old skin. Then I came home to America, where prohibition reigned. Still does in most states, including North Carolina.
I’m writing this now because today I'm more anxious than I've ever been, and I’m frustrated to live in a state that prohibits medical cannabis, a drug that relieved my anxiety in Amsterdam. Instead, I take take Prozac. It doesn’t help much, but I'm captive to Big Pharma.
With a stay-at-home order in place, I never leave the house. I'm managing myself with a frenzy of OCD activity: Cleaning and sweeping. Refinishing furniture. Pulling weeds. Organizing closets. Fixing the garden card. Washing my hands. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about.
What's going to happen when I run out of projects to keep myself busy? I suppose I'll have to confront the shit show we're living in without distraction. The Great Unraveling, brought to us by Donald Fucking Trump. I can't help thinking we'll see more suicides.
I'm not sure what to do, so for now I'm going to the top drawer on the right in my shop to get some fine-grit sandpaper. I might as well put my OCD to work while I can.