I reserve the right to blame drug-induced rage

When the world seems to be falling apart, when up is down, and nothing makes sense, I recommend finding something to alter your mood. For some, that might mean filling the cabinets with rum. For others, maybe Rocky Road is the drug of choice. Those are just two ideas. The possibilities are endless. Me, I am trying a new anticonvulsant, because, you know, the end of the world is no time to be convulsing. After six doses, my head is still doing it's spastic freight-train washing-machine antics, but the side effects are helping me cope with reality. So far, I'm too tired to care about anything. Being boneless is the bomb. 

Eventually I have to get my bones back together, what's left of them, anyway, given how arthritis is carving up my hips. That's a story for another day. It's so weird, though, how everyone I know is needing joints replaced. What's up with that? It's almost like we're getting old or something. I know. So weird.

I had a great idea for a blogpost, and once again, I forgot to write it down. Gone, off into the ether, to seek another writer whose brain can hang onto ideas for more than thirty seconds. I'm sure that other writer will do a great job with my great idea, whatever it was.

I'm not mad, although I could be. One of the side effects of my new med is rage. I know you are thinking, Carol . . . wait. What are you thinking? I'm trying to predict what you would say, and I'm coming up empty. Am I normally a rageful person? It's so hard to know from the inside. In fact, the neurologist told me I won't know if I'm acting like a jerk. I have to rely on the people around me to tell me. 

She was serious. "Let them know," she said. "Ask them to tell you if you are unusually angry or mean."

I texted my sister to tell me if I start acting snarky. I asked my Scottsdale friend to let me know if I suddenly start being mean. They both said they would. That covers the people I'm close to. But what about all the innocent folks I run into daily? The kind Walmart associates who check my receipt when I leave the store to make sure I haven't stolen a big-screen TV? The nice guys who changed the oil in my car and told me I'd soon need new brakes and a battery? The dude who hit me up for spare change in the parking lot with a sob story about being homeless and living in his car? (Like, get real, dude, who isn't?) 

Am I being mean to them and they are too polite or too hurt to show it? 

Maybe this is how Dr. Jekyll felt. 

Don't we all have reasons to be pissed off right now? Even in calm happy times, there's never a lack of things to get mad about. This seems to be a special case of world insanity, but I think I'm meeting the moment with equanimity. I haven't felt my blood boiling yet, so maybe I'm dodging the side effect of uncontrollable rage. On the other hand, maybe some righteous anger would be appropriate. I say, bring it on.

Speaking of righteous anger, I filled out contact forms for both my U.S. Senators and for my U.S. Congressperson, who happens to be a Republican. I made sure I wasn't snarky, mean, or angry. I was aiming for polite, somewhere south of flabbergasted. I didn't present a frothy emotional appeal. That never works. Cold, hard facts don't work either, though. So what are we left with? Relentless phone calls, emails, and marches. 

I got new marching shoes. I'm ready. 

There can be no rest. 

The intersection of angry and old

My lovely sojurn in paradise, i.e., Scottsdale, has ended, and I'm back on the road. I've stopped enroute for a couple days to enjoy free camping in the desert near Marana. Tomorrow I'll head into Tucson to check my mailbox, visit my possessions in the storage unit, and prepare for my afternoon neurology appointment. I'm joking on the last one. There's nothing to prepare. I have very low expectations that anything will change. I had my two months of remission. I'm grateful.

Meanwhile, as the world falls apart, I have had the luxury of complaining about the challenges of aging with my friend. Everytime we tell a story, we begin with the words "Have I told you this before? Stop me if I've told you this before." In my case, I don't remember what anyone tells me until halfway through the story when I realize I've heard it before. My diagnosis is I'm halfway to dementia. Wheee, look at me go.

The sun is setting over the mountains. The desert is half in shade, half still golden with the waning sunlight. It's a remarkable landscape. Mostly dry desert dirt, rocks, some scrubby bushes, and quite a few short green trees. In the distance, the mountains are varying shades of gray-orange with purple and blue shadows. If you've ever seen a Maxfield Parrish painting, you know what I'm trying to describe. I have grown to love the winter desert. In the summer, this place is an inferno no one in their right mind would visit, much less choose as their home. I'm lucky to be here at the best time. Along about April or May, I will vacate the desert and head for clouds and rain, i.e., the Pacific Northwest. I don't like gray skies, but I prefer them to baking to a crisp in Southern Arizona.

I thought I had something to write about in my weekly rant. It was going to be some eloquent poignant diatribe about the unfairness of growing old. Now that it's Sunday, I find I don't have the energy to complain. No one cares, and I include myself in that bunch. 

I emailed my U.S. senators. They are both Democrats. Preaching to the choir, I know. Now I'm composing a message for Republicans. I just need to figure out who to send it to. It's not a frothy plea for mercy and empathy. I know better than to go to the hardware store for bread. It won't be a threat, as in, I'm coming for you if you don't do my bidding. I don't believe in retribution. I'm a live and let live kind of person. I hope it will be a reasonable message from a person who cares about democracy and who hopes others do, too. 

I'm not sure what I will say yet, but I'll think of something. 

Meanwhile, we persist and soldier on.

Here's to the Resistance.