MENTAL WEALTH

Here I Am Again, Freaking Out!

Let stress make you a superhero, not a basketcase

Here I am again. My heart is racing. I’m more fried than a forgotten egg on a Teflon pan set on nuclear heat. All I want to do is self-medicate through thrift shopping and peanut butter cups. I’d start smoking and drinking again, but then I’d have to tell my therapist and she’s so judgmental.

Get some new material, Amy, she’d say, We’ve been over this.

I get it. The least we nutjobs can do is entertain our therapists. I’m not saying I need to be charming, but I shouldn't bore my shrink to death.

You can tell when I’m totally tapped out because I remodel my living room. I can’t afford to buy all new furniture because my ancestors forgot to ride the Mayflower. I move around what I have and I don’t mean my tea cozies.

I lift sofabed couches and grandma’s dining room set onto totally different floors. If I were the Hulk and you needed me to turn green, I wouldn’t need to be mad about injustice — I’d need to be preparing for a dinner party, a family reunion, or holding a gun to my pen trying to come up with something funny.

You can also tell I’m stressed because I start unhiding my Diet Coke from myself. I hide it because Diet Coke only has two functions — eroding my intestines or cleaning the rust out of my car. My car isn’t even rusty yet.

I also drink Diet Coke too fast which makes me look like I have a drinking problem. I drink it way faster than I ever drank whiskey though the results are the same — joy and nausea, like love. Or addiction. I’m not picky about which one you think I have.

Also when I’m stressed, I’m judgmental as hell. Do you want to know what this suck-up people-pleasing version of me really thinks of you? Come by when I’m having an anxiety attack. Ask me if those pants make you look fat or if I like your husband? Truth serum baby.

I’m also looking for all the Exits. If someone called me up right now and told me I’d won a free vacay to Disneyland, I’d choose to believe them. I’d give them my SS# and bank information on the slight chance this was true. I need Mickey Mouse, man. I don’t care if Ron DeSantis claims that Tricky Mick is a porn star. Everybody needs a hobby. Especially Ron.

In my current condition, I shouldn't be allowed to operate a motorized vehicle. I would zoom around looking for someone who needed to be taught a lesson with two tons of steel. What I lack in stability, I make up for in vehicular justice.

Anxiety also makes me dumb. It has something to do with a swollen hippocampus or an organic hippopotamus. I can’t remember. See what I mean?

Luckily, Marvel called me and said they needed another superhero — a female Hulk.

You read my mind, I told them. I was just thinking about being the Hulk.

They told me the most important thing I need to remember is “DON’T CALM DOWN!” If I calm down, my superpowers will fail me. I will be like any other weak human.

That shouldn’t be a problem, I said. I can stay mad for a long time.

Okay, Marvel Avengers Studios said. Wait at your house. We sent over some alien robots. All you have to do is kill them. Do you think you can handle it?

One step ahead of you, I said, biting the head off a Gwksork. It’s good to have hobbies. This alien killing is incredibly relaxing, zen even. I just gotta make sure I stay angry or I’m dead. I wonder if this is what it’s like for a guy trying to hold off an orgasm.

Thanks, Sara Zadrima, Toni Crowe, and Andrew Rodwin for your editing chops!

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