Yesterday I unpacked three sturdily wrapped fruit crates, the remainder of the things that survived my pre-move triage. As you can imagine, there was little in them of practical value.
The occasion for their receipt was my mistaken impression that my wallet had been stolen. I say "mistaken" because several days later I did find it, in my apartment, in a place where I would never have thought to look for it. I have no idea how it wound up there.
Meanwhile, I was panicking. Call the bank and report my Visa, call the police (like an idiot, I carry my Social Security Card out of habit), and finally start digging up the requirements to get new ID issued. (Oregon DMV no longer allows renewals by mail.) I discovered that, of all the secondary documents you can use in an application for identification, I only possessed one: my high school diploma.
...Which was packed in those boxes, which in turn I didn't have the time to catalog before I left.
So that same day, still in a state of panic, I conceded and asked my grandparents to send me all three boxes.
When I opened them last night, I took out my diploma.
...And guess what?
The name on my diploma is different than the name on my birth certificate.
Is it because of gremilins?
Gaaaah!
At least I didn't actually lose the wallet.
Update: Please, folks, for the love of Jebus or whatever you consider good, do NOT!!!! have kids and then hypenate their surnames. The divorce I didn't mind, once I was over it. The hyphenation, however, will plague me until I buckle down and decide to fix it out of my own damn pocket.
To be perfectly honest, I dislike reading lurid news copy to which I have a first hand point of reference — because even if doesn't lead me to post stuff like this, it does get inside my head.
In just such a frame of mind I'm linking to "'Zoloft defense' tests whether pills are guilty", about a guy up on murder charges claiming that the meds made him do it.
I've read the article and considered the merits, and what's inside my head are my own experiences with SSRI's. I've received three such prescriptions, one for a year during '93-'94 and two much briefer ones in the summer of '97 (which was the trough of my life to date, hands down). While I credit the latter prescription (for Zoloft) with helping me keep a desperately needed grip onto a few shreds of common sense, the other two were less than brilliant.
The second of them was for Paxil, written by a doctor whose office was festooned with pharma collateral. I was like, "I've been on Zoloft before and done tolerably well, why are you prescribing me a different drug?" Well, he didn't listen and the consequences were just no fun at all.
...My intial experience, though, is the one I immediately thought of when reading the CSM story. It was a year during which I was fairly getting things done, at the cost of horrid insomnia and constant irritability. I can easily see how poorly managed SSRI use can drive someone up the wall.
But...
Aren't there basic values we learn, whether from others or for ourselves, that we need to hold to at all costs?
I realize that the nihilists and Objectivists in the audience may not care for the question, but seriously... think about it.
As for SSRI's and all the other things out there worth taking, I'll say this: the thought crosses my mind all the time. I'm now into my third year of rending anxiety, a constant fear of something to which I can't even put a name, but when I think back through my life experience I figure it's just not worth it — the drugs may help me deal with it, but they change in some pretty fundamental levels how I think and feel about everyday life. They change who I really am, and replace me with some odd alter ego. And, uh, no thanks. Others are welcome to whatever they like, but so am I.
He's already cooking with inkjet printers, and wants to move onto high power lasers.
Perhaps I've just got too much on my mind to be jazzed by this, but I know that others 'round here will get a kick out of it.
[From Rebecca's Pocket]