Debbie Does Drivel

So my doctor suggested I go on anti-anxiety medicine.
[Go ahead and laugh. Think smugly to yourself: what took so long?
Consider that it's finally been confirmed once and for all that I am, in actuality, insane.]
Are you back, dammit? (I am of course referring to my husband, Kev, who I've determined through independent research, is the only person who reads this blog.)

My anxiety has intensified over the years, I'll give you that. Now, it's become absorbed into my biochemical make-up and regardless of whether I'm really feeling anxious, I will act anxious. My brain just gave up and thought, "Why put up a fight? Adrenaline come on in. You win. You're feisty. I like that in my hormones, but you're evil. Why you gotta be so evil, Adrenaline? I just wanted to love you."

Here's how the anxiety manifests: when I'm sitting down, I periodically realize how hunched my shoulders are, and sometimes they're damn near up around my ears; sometimes it feels like there is an electricity train running through my blood stream; some evil genius miniaturized the cast of Stomp! and for some diabolical reason that has to do with taking over the world, injected them (through my ear) into my brain.

Other anxiety "symptoms:" hypochondria, irritability, farting.

Anxiety sucks. But I'm not taking the medicine. I'm too anxious about it. Plus, it makes you feel like a robot (again, confirmed through my independent research), and I'd rather be Crazy Debbie then Monotone Debbie. That's because I'm crazy.

So here's what I'm going to do: yoga, listen to gospel music, write in a journal, pray, make a Happy Book. The latter will contain pictures that make me happy, like snapshots of my kids, images of water, and Cold Stone ads. My theory is: if I look at this Happy Book enough, I will re-program my brain and forge new neural pathways. Then, my brain can co-exist peacefully (in another town) from Adrenaline. And except for the occasional booty call, they won't see each other much.

It's gotta work, right? [Kev?]