Skip to main content

Lexapro Diary

 I'm in a silent fight with Audra McDonald.


She always tells this story in interviews. "I was a hyperactive child, very averse to school. I was failing. And my parents were educators. I'm certainly not judging anyone, not judging any choices, but MY parents said, We are NOT trying Ritalin. Audra will cope through THEATER CLASSES. And the rest is history."

I find this story irritating--because *of course* Audra McDonald is being judgmental. Of course the subtext is: Ritalin is a weaker choice. And I want to remind Audra that she attempted suicide at Juilliard. So: Did theater class really accomplish everything she was hoping for?

My own diagnosis is "adjustment disorder," and Lexapro has been a welcome aide. ("I'm not judging anyone who chooses Lexapro, but....") I can tell you about "adjustment disorder." It's basically this. If you were in public, and you saw someone acting in a thoughtless way, you might raise your eyebrows. But, instead, I see this, and I enter a spiral of rumination, and I am still thinking about the rude behavior after hours (and hours and hours) have elapsed.

Right now, I have a pushy, obnoxious client, and my husband advises a "Cary Grant" approach. Be suave, charm the pants off that asshole. It's amazing to me that--at 42--I don't intuitively understand that this is the right course of action. I first have to draft a blunt, exasperated email: "YOU ARE BEING PUSHY AND OBNOXIOUS." I need a calm observer to steer me in another direction.

Thank God for marriage--and for retail therapy. And for Lexapro. I don't mean to be judgmental toward Audra McDonald, but....
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more