Boy Meets Pills

Mom and dad: If you're reading this, I promise I'm fine and I promise I won't feel like talking about this on the phone just yet.

According to Wikipedia, over 8.6 million Americans suffer from generalized anxiety disorder. Characterized by "excessive, uncontrollable and often irrational worry about everyday things that is disproportionate to the actual source of worry," the condition can cause its sufferers to "catastrophise, anticipate disaster, and [be] overly concerned about everyday matters" and undergo "mood swing, irritability... and muscle tension." It also can lead a person to spend two hours in their head rehashing a three year-old fight with their sister or spend all their spare energy trying not to jump out of a subway car that has too many loud talkers on it.

This is probably a good time for me to go back to that Wikipedia page and change the statistic to 8.6 million and one. In case any of you have Don't Pick Up On Subtleties Disorder, I could more overtly say that I got an official diagnosis this afternoon. While it is very gratifying to have a professional tell me that I haven't just been in an 8-month bad mood, it does mean that I have to join an increasingly common pantheon of Americans: The many, the crazy, the medicated.

I come from a long bloodline of mental illness. I'll spare you the details, as a list of common North American songbirds would briefer, but suffice it to say that there are more than a few corners missing from the family matzoh. My dad and I have jokingly considered a sign for our front yard that says "Rosen Family: X days without emotional crisis." Spending this much time around such concentrated odd behavior, if not outright insanity, I got used to taking pride in being reliable. No crying jags, no frailty, no dark weeks. It was really looking like I would be able to avoid the family trap. But alas, family traps are called such because genetics are inescapable. I'll be filling my prescription tomorrow.

I'm as aware as anybody else that mental disorders are illnesses, just like a migraine. No one out there beats themselves up about taking an excedrin, right? It just sucks to admit defeat to a problem I was really hoping to take care of by myself. I don't disinfect cuts until they turn yellow. I treat colds with nothing but garlic, vitamin C and a good nights sleep. However, it's been a gross miscalculation that long walks and cheery music could alleviate two days of abnormal irritation at, say, running into three of my boyfriend's exes in a single afternoon.

Problematically, I am adamant that being gay is not something that can just be turned off in any compartment of my life. Ergo, I'm a gay music snob instead of just a music snob. I consider myself to be a gay blogger. Today, then, do I have to admit that I'm a gay nutjob? I know that getting beaten up about a relatively minor condition is like crying about my hangnail in the amputee ward. I'm not bipolar or severely depresed, but a lot of people still associate homosexuality with mental illness. Many of those people march behind coffins with "God Kills Fags" signs. There are also those like my sister who still want to blame my 7th grade mopey-ness (and accompanying bad grades) on my being "gay and depressed."

Sure, a lot of what I worry about involves not having had the urban, gay (wantonly slutty) experiences that most men need to get out of the way before they settle. And no matter how much I protest it, there are a lot of aspects to gay life that are inherently lonely. The isolation and delayed romantic awakenings. The severing of roots that is necessary to fully find a community. It is well-documented that gays can have higher incidences of emotional problems. I just didn't think that was an umbrella I would have to fall under.

If anyone is familiar with Battlestar Galactica, I used to think of the Rosen family brain bug like being a Cylon. You like a number of years of your life thinking you're one kind of person and then boom! Something turns on and you're hearing phantom strains of "All Along the Watchtower" or making racecars out of your own poop.

I know for a fact that things aren't that bad. Nor will they ever be. It's just weird to know that the things you spend the most time running from actually can turn out to be trotting patiently at your side when you stop to catch a breath.

I also found out that such pills come with possible side effects of weight gain, lowered alcohol tolerance and delayed ejaculation. So if you want to talk to me about this at the next TNG party, just look for the fruitlessly masturbating fat guy who got drunk off of one beer.