ECT Redux

Most of January 2019 I spent in the hospital. While I was there, the doctors persuaded me to have electroconvulsive therapy. As a friend said, I was off in R.P. McMurphy land. Not for the first time.
An ad for an antidepressant just came on the TV. Trintellix, I think. At any rate, ECT again. Unilateral, as opposed to bilateral. The first time, 1994, surely was bilateral, according to the doctor. Bilateral means they fry both sides of your brain. Unilateral, the most recent treatment, was bilateral. For anyone interested. It didn't work. But, pause, imagine the extent of the desperation to which one consults to an electrical connection to the brain. I guess the brain involves electrical connections with which to begin (don't end  sentence with a preposition). It's telling, in and of itself, that I could be concerned with grammatical issues while dealing with the ECT tailwater. Tailwaters--those below a dam. The preoccupation with apparently insignificant issues plays a big part. The most recent stint involved the psych ward. I rather fancy having you on the ward. I love being in group with you. You're awesome. My fellow inpatients. That's the environment in which I am comfortable.
Fuck, I just want once in my life to be as happy as a "Price Is Right" contestant called to come on down. A new recliner. High 5, high 5.














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