NitN 8 - The Five of Pentacles (Worry More, Gripe More)
Appropriate to the autumnal blues that provided the backdrop when this episode was originally recorded, Geoff and JT draw the Five of Pentacles as a conversation starter and go on to have a conversation about the abundant isolation, loneliness, and lack mentality that are endemic to politics, capitalism and even psychosis.
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Intro!
I wanna see a sequel to Inside Out where the main character starts a regimen of antipsychotics and the peppy glowy people that are supposed to be running her head are all stoned comatose.
The nights immediately post-diagnosis, I'd pour a shitload of pills into my palm, then carve away the overdose temptation with the pill bottle, leaving nothing behind but my prescription.
At least twelve hours of sleep later, the pain in my bladder would finally overrule the sedation. It'd grant my limbs just enough strength to stagger to the bathroom. Then I'd piss.
It felt like hours spent slouched in front of the toilet.
Like I could have pissed away the rest of the afternoon. The rest of my life. The remainder of my dreams.
When you first encounter it, everything about the pharmaceutical industry seems insidious.
Like the way marketing gives pills Pokemon names. Almost as if there's some kind of conspiracy to make them palatable to the gameboy generation.
“You gotta pop ‘em all!”
Well, I very nearly have.
Take Geodon for example. Doesn't it sound like Geodude evolved into a mob boss? That's fitting because it's main move was something akin to “earthquake.” The tremors that literally rocked my body were Super Effective at preventing me from leaving my bed.
Or Seroquel. Doesn't it sound like a happy anime porcupine? Must have been a cousin of snorlax cause it helped with little more than making me fat and sleepy.
Then there's Lamictal, the legendary fire bird that quickly turned on me and left my limbs and chest covered with burning rashes.
If you ever see two mentally ill people talking, we really are like trainers comparing our prescription histories like pokedexes. Humblebragging about the side effects we've endured like every single one of them is a gym badge denoting a boss conquered.
But despite the fact that I spent so long living like a thanksgiving turkey—baked and trussed up and stuffed full of mush for the benefit of national tradition—despite that, the cornucopia of prescriptions I still endure daily has improved.
You've got to recognize psychiatrists are doctors of nothing more than guessing and checking. You've got to demand to keep trying shit until you stumble onto the unique cocktail that suits your peculiar neurochemistry.
I've nixed the risky behavior that's the result of feeling invincible without encasing my consciousness in countless milligrams of dust smudged plexiglass.
I've stabilized the pendulous rubberband recoil of high and low energy, but I can still feel feelings.
In short, I've found a way to use chemistry to secure the headspace necessary for me to resume growing. To be productive. To pursue happiness.
Society is sick—and I’m far from ashamed of not being innately well-adjusted to it—but the inalienable right to pursue happiness is not one I’m ready to forfeit.