Oh dear…
I’d like to become socially competent.
Thanks, I appreciate that. I’m fine. I’m just sick and hurt is all.
Yes. My foot swelling is dramatically better. And I’ve taken really good care of my shin. After each shower, I’ve dressed it with povidone-iodine solution and a triple antibiotic ointment. I’ve covered it with sterile rubberized gauze, and secured it with paper tape. That care, he said, along with the Augmentin should do the trick.
He told me after stabbing me probably 30 times with a needle in my body’s most tender places to numb me, cutting I don’t know how many skin tags (including small ones on my neck without numbing), cauterizing at least a couple dozen, and removing a big mole on the side of my forehead — after all that he told me that Indians often used bloodroot to do what he did. (He’s half Cherokee.) Just make a paste with a mortar and pestle (which I don’t have anyway). I asked him if it works. He shrugged.
No, see… “morpheme” → “morphine”. Bah. Never mind. 
“I’d like to become socially competent.”
Actually, that could be a very healthy goal. Find a trusworthy psychologist or counselor and learn if you’re not, and how you might become so. Ask your MD for a referrence.
I cannot figure out what this is a reply to. I will be unable to sleep tonight if I don’t know.
Just everything in general. Not so much a reply as an, “Oh dear, MORE of this? Lib is going on and on about being in dire health, more drama, etc.”
Make sense?
Old English going back to at least the mid-1600s to mean a vagina, and used in a demeaning way. Probably wasn’t used to call someone a stupid person type until much, much later.
I thought vagina, but that didn’t seem to fit in Smeghead’s comment. Stupid person fits much better. IMO, of course.
Thanks
Yeah. But there’s something compelling about the whole situation with Liberal, isn’t there? If not, why are we here, joining in the drama?
Originally, I spoke with a psychologist at the recommendation of the physician I had at that time (the one who told me that my time could be limited). We had, oh, five or six half-hour sessions. He reported back to the doctor that I have OCD, anxiety, and panic attacks. The doctor twice — twice! — prescribed medicine that was completely wrong. I’m not blaming him. I assume he was following some sort of guide.
But the first medication, a serotonin uptake inhibitor (I can’t remember exactly which brand) turned me into a baby-talking near-vegetable. My speech was slurred, and very slow. I got lost coming home, and actually went to the old apartment building where we lived, but I couldn’t remember which one was ours. (We didn’t even live there anymore.) A kind person helped me get in touch with my wife, who picked me up and threw the medicine in the trash. It was several days before I recovered.
The second medicine he prescribed was Buspirone. It worked on me like a diet pill. Like speed from high school. I hated it. I hated speed. I felt nervous all the time, and on the edge of my seat. It was the exact fucking opposite of what I needed. It was then that my wife insisted I switch doctors.
I approached my new internist with a request. I asked if he would work as a sort of general contractor, treating what he could and farming out the rest. My wife had checked him out thoroughly. He was a Duke graduate, and had an excellent reputation. He agreed to my plan, and began treating me immediately for certain ailments like high blood pressure and diabetes.
Then, he sent me to a podiatrist for something I had complained about for a long time. I described it as a yellow jacket sitting on my right big toe and stinging me constantly. It never let up, and it hurt like hell. This went on for a long time. My old doctor couldn’t figure out what the hell it was, and assumed it was all in my head.
The podiatrist examined me, x-rayed me, and eventually diagnosed me as having peripheral neuropathy. It involves the nerves that aren’t the brain and spinal cord nerves. In my case, it was a long nerve that reached to my toe. Anyway, he prescribed Lyrica (very expensive drug). When I went back to him, I told him it was about 75% effective, and so he upped the dosage. Now, my toe almost never burns. It’s like a miracle drug.
And so the internist also sent me to a dermatologist to look at bumps and scabs on my legs that never seemed to heal. Immediately on sight, he said, “You have dandruff on your legs.” Seborrheic dermatitis was the formal term, and he said it’s the same thing I have on my scalp and on my face, especially my forehead. He prescribed two creams, triamcinolone acetonide and ketaconazol, the former for my legs and the latter for my face. For my scalp, he recommended a zinc based shampoo. I use the Equate brand equivalent to Head and Shoulders. All that stuff seems to be clearing up.
Finally, the internist referred me to a psychiatrist. Not a psychologist, a psychiatrist (i.e., a medical doctor who could do his own prescriptions.). He noticed immediately that I was engaging in OCD behavior (tapping my fingers in synchronous succession equivalent numbers of times, and so forth). We talked at length. He collects old documents and has, among other things, a letter from Freud. We talked about “The Aesthetical Jesus”.
He asked me whether I was a perfectionist, and I said yes. The coffee cups must be stacked just so, with the handles turned at thirty degrees, and so forth. He asked me whether my condition had affected my home life. And I responded truthfully. I don’t know how my wife put up with me for so long. “That cup’s handle is turned almost 45 degrees! Dammit, why can’t you do this right!?” But she loved me.
Anyway, we also talked about my hippie days and my experiments with drugs. I told him about my terrible experiences with my former doctor’s drugs. I told him that I don’t want something to “pick me up”. I’m not depressed. I’m just obsessed. I don’t want to be the guy dancing on the table with a lampshade on his head while everyone claps and cheers me on. I want to be the guy sitting by myself in the corner just watching everyone.
I told him that I have a melancholy temperament, and that I’m happy with that. I don’t want to be sanguine or, God forbid, phlegmatic. My wife fell in love with the melancholy Lib. My best friend (who’s also my boss) befriended the melancholy Lib. I told him I don’t want to be happy-happy-happy all the time.
Then he said something I thought was really important. He said, “I don’t want to change your personality.” I was floored that he said that. It meant a lot to me. It meant that I had the right guy.
He asked me about my hippie days. “What drugs did you like and what drugs did you dislike?”
Immediately, I said, “I hated speed. Hated it. Hated cocaine. Hated meth. Hated any and all of the upper-type drugs.”
“And what did you like?”
“Quaalude,” I said instantly. They made me feel calm and quiet. I would just sit in a room peacefully and watch everybody.
“Well,” he said, grabbing his pad, “Quaalude is no longer available, but I’m writing you a prescription for a modern equivalent: Tranxene. It should calm you down. Try one pill twice a day, and double it if necessary.”
And God, I can’t tell you. I just can’t tell you what a difference that drug has made in my life and in the lives of people who put up with me, like my wife. After more recent visits, we have steadily increased the dosage until it’s just about right. I’m not fretting over the small stuff anymore. I don’t care how the cups are arranged. I think my wife does an amazing fucking job at everything she tries. We spend a lot of time together now just talking. In fact, we were just out in her vegetable garden. She was telling me all about her plants. I couldn’t help but think, “No, this is all wrong, The corn should be here, and the tomatoes should be there.” But the thing is, I just don’t care. I giggled at my gut reaction. It was just silly. So I hugged her, and told her what a great job she did.
Then we sat at the koi pond for a bit, feeding the fish. But it got chilly and we came in. So I’m hoping that maybe the Tranxene will help a lot with improving my social skills. We’ll see, I guess.
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Note to Guin on preview:
You know, the “drama” that you perceive would be reduced considerably if you stayed out of these threads, wouldn’t it? I mean, the count thingy right now shows that you’re second only to me in numbers of posts in here. Maybe if you could exercise some self-control over your morbid curiosity, you’d subject yourself to considerably less “drama”.
More correctly I believe it meant a vulva, which is adjacent to the taint as well as the vagina.
::blink blink::
::rubs eyes::
Nutjob, heal thyself.
Hey, even a stopped clock is right twice a day…
Lib, have you thought about writing an autobiography? 
When I was in grade 1, I had a crush on the town doctor’s daughter in my class whose name was Josephine Rigg. Because I wanted more attention from her, I filled my mouth at the school outside water fountain one recess and spewed the contents all over the front of her shirt. She misunderstood my intent.
I believe that Guin may have a crush on you. Perhaps it is your awesome superior post count. It just seems whereever you pop up in the threads I read she’s there too.
I think you need to rub your eyes some more, until you can read the thread title. I belong in here. Guin doesn’t. And guess what, neither do you!
I’m not the one lying about people who went out of their way to make you feel welcome, who constantly made exceptions for you, only to get shit on.
THAT is why I’m here. I don’t like it when people make up shit about people I consider friends. And I don’t go around screaming and throwing hissyfits, saying, “I’m never coming back here!!!” Only to show up again as if nothing ever happened.
God, no. I’d be bored stiff.
You sounded like Reese on Malcom in the Middle. That’s exactly what he’d have done to “flirt” with a girl. I guess the crush theory could be valid. Especially since it’s always so passive-aggressive, so push-me pull-you. The funny thing is, she’s been picked at more than a cooked pig at a Southern picnic. She’s been the object of more pile-ons than a high school wide receiver. And yet, she always seems to spew her water all over me.
You know, it’s quite sweet really.
Not surprisingly, we have different points of view about all that.
That sounds awfully dramatic. You’re, like, the knight in shining armor or something?
Due respect, it sounds like you’re having a hissy fit right now.
Haven’t you died of your flesh-eating bacteria yet?
Even flesh-eating bacteria have standards you know.
Jeez, teach an organism about binary fission and suddenly it starts acting like a snob. That’s the tyranny of evolution for ya.