Clunker of Madness

Posted on October 21, 2002 in Depression Mania

There’s a fine site for depressives called Wing of Madness that I am remembering mostly because the name seems somehow undescriptive of my own experience inside the disease. (The author also suffers. Her experience is worth reading.) The only thing I can say for the wing metaphor is that aluminum is gray, which is the classic color of melancholy and a flat affect. Any wings I’ve grown in the course of being sick are about as high flying as those of the derelict jetliners parked out in the Mojave Desert. There’s no whoosh of mania as Crazy Tracy reported that she felt last week.

I drive the Clunker of Madness. I speed along on the freeways of society, leaking oil; dropping nuts and bolts as I go; occasionally backfiring and scaring the living daylights out of everyone. I’m overdue for a smog check (hence I made an appointment with a psychiatrist AND a counselor today.) When I get down, two things are true: first, I become extra sensitive and second, I doubt that I am ever right. Fighting the second with the first doesn’t work too well, either. And fighting the second feeds the first and the rotary engine of the Clunker of Madness spins out of control, clanging loudly.

Fortunately, inside that clunker there always remains a driver who can see the problems, stop the car for a bit, get out, and fix them with a little help from pharmaceuticals and wise counsel. The driver assures me that, yes, people may be acting unreasonably and spitefully, but to take heed of the misfirings of the spark plugs as I attempt to deftly dodge in and out of emotional traffic. My driver says “Slow down. Call AAA. You’ve got a flat and we need to fix it.” It’s that small voice of sanity that has always been there, a compassionate and reliable friend who knows his moment and speaks plainly to it.

Right now, he’s saying “We need to take this mind into a shop. Maybe rebuild the engine. Get an oil change. Replace some parts. Things can be fixed. Do your best to avoid other crazy drivers and don’t try to take the wheel from me and ram the people who annoy you. Let me be your me in charge of the road. I’ll get us across the continent. And there will be a fine sunset.”

I’m not sure Tracy was thinking of me when she wrote on Friday “Please, please, please….buckle up. You know who you are”, but I could not help but laugh the gallows laugh and write “I think I just hit the wall of life….{crash} {burn}”.