By Heather

The other afternoon, I’m in my office with the door mostly shut, singing along to Biggie’s greatest hits “I love it when you call me Big Poppa …” when a colleague/friend knocks on my door to rehash some gossip. It was the type of gossip that makes my blood boil because it’s childish stuff being done by a woman in her 50’s. Though practically routine with this woman, I can’t help but become offended at her lack of class and blatant rudeness, all of which are a manifestation of being jilted ages beforehand. But I suppose you can take the mean girl out of high school but can’t take high school out of the mean girl. Par for the course.

As the story is being relayed and I’m feeling more and more offended, my coworker mentions the mean girl’s craziness. She points her index finger at her head and circles it around while rolling her eyes; the international sign. As she says this, I remember the time and rummage around in my bag for medication. She laughs and continues the story while I try to get to some happy place in my mind. I feel my anxiety coupled with anger rising which won’t lead to intelligent discourse or the ability to roll my eyes back and scoff at some hag who didn’t get what she wanted thus taking it out on everyone else. Anxiety and anger will lead to me losing my shit. I’ve been there and done that more than enough times. It was my rather ‘capricious’ (to put it nicely) behavior that led to the medication.

As the story continues, I use the ‘c’ word and pop a klonopin. It’s that time of day and I’ve been instructed to take my benzodiazepine consumption seriously. I relax and sit back in my chair to hear the rest of tale; while smiling inwardly, for after four months, I’m still amazed at what medication can do. I was once incredibly dubious to the thought of medication and those who took it. What an embarrassing thing, to be forced into drugs because of erratic – nay psychotic – behavior, I would scoff. Why couldn’t people just control themselves? I’m one of ‘those people’. One who just can’t control herself at times, because I just wasn’t built that way.

So I smile inwardly and finally am composed to the point where I’m not on the verge of tears but just blasé as to the mean girl’s behavior and particular cruelty towards me.S Suddenly rational enough to realize that I can only control my reactions to her garish behavior and just do my job. Because I may have my issues, which, by the grace of God, can be helped by medication and therapy, but she’s just a bitch and there ain’t shit that can be done to help that.