Almost every doctor I went to see seemed to just go ahead and assume I was crazy before I even sat down, probably because I wrote or circled things on my forms like "Celexa, 40 mg daily," "Buspar, 30 mg daily" and "history of substance abuse."
I found myself in the embrace of a near-stranger who was overwhelmed with joy just because inconsequential, strange, and silly little me had lived to see another day. I surrendered to her startling affection and took part in the impromptu celebration of my own beating heart.
Why is a celebrity's path toward serious health problems or death something to take macabre delight in, while a woman discussing the ordinary and often very mundane facts of death is someone to shut down?
I've been a horror-movie junkie since I was a kid. As an adult, I graduated to trashy true-crime books and TV (plus an inexhaustible passion for "Law & Order: SVU"). It's slightly embarrassing, but I'm not alone in this -- am I? Let's discuss.
It was one early morning in February when I decided I needed to get out. I needed to prove to myself I could have an adventure, some sort of quest that would make me realize I could have some sort of meaningful experience unaided by anyone else.