I haven’t posted anything lately, because I’ve spent the last three weeks on a much needed…nervous breakdown. And while I was in the middle of it, I didn't feel particularly funny.

This wasn't my first time dealing with anxiety. Several years ago, I called a friend because I was having all the usual forty-year-old-guy-who-laughs-at-things-like-exercise-and-diet symptoms—shortness of breath, palpitations, etc. Took me to the emergency room. Check that—we actually had to spend an hour in the emergency room waiting room. Now, I’m not a health care professional, but I know a thing or two about words, and I’m pretty sure the word ‘emergency’ implies NO WAITING!

So there I am, in the middle of a panic attack, and I’m sitting next to some guy with a lawn dart stuck in his head, people wailing like extras from “The Snake Pit,” and the only thing to distract me from this Miltonian Hell is a TV which is showing (and I assure you I am not making this up) a rerun of “Highway to Heaven”! Yeah, that’s what you want to watch when you’re worried about dying—a cancelled show about the afterlife starring a dead guy!

I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. Generalized. Yeah, thanks for narrowing it down, doc. “Well, my considered opinion, Mister Comedy, is that you’re anxious about some things…just—in general.” Now I’ve always been a drama queen, but this was tangible proof of what I’d been saying for years—that a lot of things freak me out. (if I currently work for you or you were planning to hire me in the future…um…I’m fine).

Here’s a joke you can tell around the water cooler:

Two guys with generalized anxiety disorder walk into a bar. They look around the bar until one of them notices something. Their palms start to sweat, and then they leave.

While I wasn’t exactly thrilled to have an actual signed piece of paper attesting to my mental illness, I did want some help. So, they send me to the pharmacy and I pick up a two week supply of Xanax, or as it’s known by its common name, Holy Crap I’m Way Too Mellow This Kinda Scares Me Should I Be This Sluggish Why Can’t I Move My Arms.

Now understand, I’m skittish about drugs to begin with (yes, I realize that booze and weed are drugs but you know damn well what I’m talking about stop judging me alright fine I drink too much and I'm a pothead are you happy now?). For some reason, pills scare me, and one night, when I was battling insomnia, and the vodka didn’t knock me out, I decided to take a Benedryl.

Over the counter, just twenty-five milligrams, but since the bottle says  'avoid alcohol,' which I hadn't, I didn’t know if it would be safe. So I actually called a 24 hour Walgreens to ask the pharmacist on duty if I could ignore the contraindication without, say, dying. He said I should be fine, and pointed out that the bottle also says that taking Benedryl after consuming alcohol may increase drowsiness, which was, after all, sorta the point.

I don’t just annoy pharmacists, either. The few times I've been to a clinic, I’m always a horrible patient, partly because I watched all fifteen seasons of “ER.” So when they ask me questions, I throw out words like ‘contraindicated.’ I tell them I’m ‘presenting’ with certain symptoms that seem consistent with…well, you get the picture.

And doctors must hate WebMD. Just enter my symptoms and…click! With no medical training, I can diagnose with at least seventeen distinct illnesses,conditions, and syndromes. WebMD is like Wal-Mart for people with Münchausen Syndrome.

But Xanax—that’s a whole different kind of relaxed. I can see why people start eating them like candy. Thankfully, the clinic wouldn’t renew my prescription, so I had to look for other ways to deal with anxiety. With the help of some good friends, and a little tune-up at the Walk-In Counseling Center, I went back to simply being irresponsible, impulsive and OCD.

Flash forward (but not in a tedious, Fox sci-fi show sorta way) to this Thanksgiving, and I wake up crying. (note: there will be more funny in just a bit). See, I don’t have a family, and this time of year you can’t escape images of family gatherings right out of Rockwell (Norman--not George, the American Nazi Party guy)

From the end of November until New Year’s, it’s like a fat lady from Berlin is sitting on my chest—“Submit to the holidays! You vill submit! You must haf a family dinner!” TV should show holiday specials for single lonely people: Hallmark Hall of Fame Presents: Chinese Takeout and Netflix—What Christmas Means To Me.

The anxiety attacks have come back, and it’s not just the holiday thing that has me agitated. I’m freaking out about my health. Every muscle twitch, every tingle now feels like a reminder that a) I’m almost 50 and b) I’ve never treated my body like a temple…maybe a rec room, but not a temple.

It doesn’t help that I tend to, given several plausible explanations for a symptom I’m feeling, latch onto the one most likely to be featured on an episode of “House.” I have a headache, it must be a brain tumor. I get a muscle spasm, I’m joining support groups for people with MS.

Now here’s where my neuroses get really cool--I’m also afraid of going to the doctor! Talk about wanting to have it both ways—there’s not much point in being a hypochondriac if I’m not gonna see a doctor! I’m missing out on the main perk of thinking I’m sick—the attention!

I thought it was odd that, after years of living in crisis mode, and not feeling depressed, now that I have a good creative job, a place to call home, and enough extra money to buy a song on iTunes now and then, suddenly I'm having anxiety attacks again. Then I figured it out. 

When you're in survival mode, you don't spend a lot of time feeling depressed and scared.  When you're checking the pants in your closet for change so you can have bus fare, you don't do a lot of brooding about big-picture stuff. Apparently, I now have the luxury of depression.Woo fucking hoo.

So, the bottom line is, I’ve had a couple weeks where I haven’t felt very funny. But I’m finally taking some steps toward fixing whatever mental widget is broken, figuring out why I go into ‘fight-or-flight’ mode when I’m not, in fact, being chased by a tiger.

I’ve made an appointment to start therapy in January, and I’m gonna really make an attempt to be open to the process, be present, have a plan, set realistic goals, and…learn other clichés. I’m not sure if I’m willing to try any of those fancy big-city brain drugs they have, but on the other hand, if they’ve got one that’ll help me get out of bed before noon, I’ll give it some thought.

Hey, what the hell, after I deal with the whole anxiety thing, maybe I’ll actually see a doctor about my bum leg, and my arm that doesn’t really work all that well. But I'm scared, and if I see one leech, I’m outta there.