Medication’s effing weird man. I feel great, I feel up, people around me have said they’ve noticed, but according to “the experts,” I shouldn’t be feeling this medication for another few weeks. That’s why I call them nanobots; like those little mf’ers with their mechanical opposable thumbs got right to work on me. I’ve been calling them my “don’t give a fuck” pills, because they really help with that above everything else. When I go anywhere, even if it’s just a quick run to the store, I need to be dressed for the occasion. If I’m going to the mall, or somewhere with a lot of people in a dynamic way—I’ll dress to the nines. If it’s something like Wal-Mart or the grocery store, sometimes I’ll just go in a t-shirt and jeans. Never have I ever been a person to go out in his sweats, despite the time of day and the errand being ran. That is, until Sunday.
On Sunday I woke up at quarter to six in the morning and ended up just milling around the house—realizing quickly that I needed a grocery run. So, wearing my trusty Kangol sweatpants and a burgundy hoodie I left the house without a second thought. It wasn’t until I was in the parking lot that I realized what I was wearing, and I got nervous—but not because of actual nerves, I got nervous out of habit. My self esteem has been so low that I usually need to stack the deck for me before I go anywhere. I have to look good, I have to be put together, because if I come face to face with anyone I know, I need to be able to face them with my head held high. On Sunday, I didn’t give a fuck. I was very much Marilyn Monroe in that moment: “if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” And, my worst is what it was. Hair akimbo, sweats barely hanging on, stained hoodie, all part of an unwashed man shopping for coke, coffee, bread and Tylenol. I rolled through that store like a cool breeze without a care in the world, never second guessing myself once. If this is what I have to look forward to, life is going to be sweet as pie.
My one concern though is that I seem to go really fast. My mom, as well as several friends have told me that I’m just all over the place in conversation, but I don’t feel it in the least. I feel calm and collected, but it seems that I’m not quite there. At work today, a hand was placed on my arm, and I was told to “slow down,” something I needed to hear, because I didn’t even realize I was spinning my wheels. It’s a revelation that makes me feel slightly out of control, but not in the wildin’ out type of way, but like I lack the control over my own facilities.
But hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’ve resigned my worries to the “adjustment period,” which I’ve actually renamed “the honeymoon phase,” because I’m sure this odd sense of euphoria will go away. But, it is like me to question my good moods and look for the hidden shit hawks circling high above. I hope I’m wrong.
See you tomorrow.