Since the onset of the pandemic, we’ve all been grappling with extremely disturbing challenges. And, for some of us, the words “mental health,” as well as “fruitcake,” have taken on a whole new meaning. For me, there was that absolutely horrific three-month hiatus from my colorist and, even more ghastly, a four-month leave from the gym.
In fact, looking at my reflection has been a living nightmare and I’m only just now feeling comfy with removing the black velvet drapes from my mirrors. With things so strange, so different, so out there, it’s amazing I haven’t gone completely crazy. I AM AMAZING. Truly, truly amazing.
“Liar!!! Bamboozler!!!” Who said that? “Liar, liar, pants on fire!!!” Gosh darn it, alright already! Shut up, will ya? Who made you judge, jury and executioner? “Hoodwinker!!! Hornswoggler!!!” Okay! I did stretch the truth a wee bit. I’m now going to waive my HICCUP privilege—. “Not HICCUP, you loose screw, HIPPA!” HICCUP. HIPPA. What’s the diff?
Yay! A New Diagnosis is Born!
Anyhoo, I was just DX’d with COVID-19 Looney Tunes Personality Disorder (Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee). “What’s that!?!” Well, you know those all-inclusive luxury trips to the Bahamas where you crave self-indulgence? Spa treatments. Infinity pools. Tennis. Wet bars. Having Ell-Tee-Pee-Dee is the exact opposite mindset.
Instead of craving hot tub dips with Marcello, the pool boy, you crave quiet time in the basement, stroking the 268 bottles of water you bought just in case, in addition to the pandemic, there is also a drought.
And, instead of a yen for a full body massage with John Pierre, you yearn for a locked ward in which your daily highpoints are making your bed and taking part in supervised social activities with your fellow loonies. Most important, you catastrophize. Because you’ve become a fruitcake. Or, as some people like to say, “a person with mental health…umm…challenges.
Catastrophizing is a Real Thing
You: “Doctor Wigpick, I would really like to work at least until I’m 70.”
Therapist: “Great. Working helps stave off dementia.”
You: “Dementia? I’m getting dementia?”
T: “No. I just meant that—“:
You: “Oh, my God. I’m getting early onset Alzheimer’s!!!”
T: “No, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was-“
You: “I can’t believe this is happening! I’ve got to select a nursing home, get impoverished by giving all my money to my husband and get on Medicaid!!!”
T: “Stop! You’re catastrophizing. I did NOT say you were getting dementia.”
You: “Yes, this is a catastrophe!!! Oh, my God. I’m decomposing!!!”
T: “You mean decompensating.”
You: “Decomposing!!! Decompensating!!! What difference does it make??? I have ALZHEIMER’S!!!”
“Being cuckoo is quite common,” says YouTube therapy quack Sigmundo Freddie Freudo (not to be confused with Frodo of Middle Earth). Plenty of people are verrűckt. You know, fetzig. Wahnsinnig! Especially in America. And sometimes being meshugenah can come in handy.”
Mental Health Melange A Trois
Let’s take ADHD, a longstanding DX of choice for the kids of rich people desperate to explain why goofy little Bentley is not Harvard-bound. Rather than accepting he is a loser destined for middle management in a Hartford insurance company, his parents get him DX’d with ADHD and all’s right with the world. “Bentley would be a master of the universe if not for that darn ADHD!”
Here’s another example, which I know you’ve experienced. (That is, when dining indoors at your favorite fancy schmancy eaterie wasn’t a surefire death sentence.) You observe a mom, dad, and their two teenage monsters. Both have their eyeballs glued to their phones.
Mom: “Kids, please put your phones away. It’s time for quality family interaction over foie gras and roast duck. Thank you.”
Monsters: No response
Mom: “Darlings, please put your phones away. Thank you.”
Monsters: No response
Mom: “Children…” gently removing the phones from their cold dead hands. “Thank you.”
Monsters: Screaming, thrashing, throwing chairs, turning over tables, running out of the restaurant
Mom: (to the maître d) “I’m so sorry, but my children have ADHD.”
And then there’s Bipolar Disorder, a surefire mental health winner, characterized by the desire to ride the world’s tallest roller coaster, while standing up, drunk as a skunk, and the subsequent desire to hide under the sofa for three days, living on dust bunnies and Ritz cracker crumbs
Mental Health Melange a Trois (continued)
“Our bipolar friends are so fun to have at parties,” gushes East Hampton’s #1 social doyenne Eva Chaswick-Cheswick-Chiswick. “Their manic episodes make them ideal guests, especially when they swing from the chandeliers while sipping martinis from my Manolos.”
And then, of course, le pièce de résistance: Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). {Spoiler alert: a political opinion follows}
NPD is epitomized by Donald Trump, America’s wannabe Abe Lincoln. A man who says what he thinks, never means what he says, and despises anyone who is stupid enough to lose at Parcheesi. “One of the great things about Donald being a narcissist is that he gives you expensive presents,” giggles Mr. Trump’s amanuensis, Maria von Trappenstein of Monaco and South Brooklyn. “Donald spends tons on gifts because he wants everyone to think he has a really big ding dong.”
“NPD is quite contagious,” says Dr. Freudo. “With no vaccine for this serious disorder, we recommend mask-wearing and social distancing until one is proven safe and effective.”
To bolster his case, Dr. Freudo points to co-mingling Senate Republicans who display features of NPD, most notably majority leader Mitch McConnell. In a recent interview, the senator gushed, “I am thrilled to be amongst my distinguished colleagues who have made governing an exercise in rapacious greed.”
Have a Slice – It’s Made in America
With so many fruitcakes in America, it’s a wonder anything gets done! (For great fruitcake recipes, click on the blue link.)
Dr. Freudo: “Pssst, nut job!”
What now?
Dr. Freudo: “Nothing gets done in America anymore, you idiot. Everyone knows that!”
That is a bitter pill to swallow.
Dr. Freudo: “You can’t swallow pills because you can’t afford health insurance. Loser.”
I quit.
Dr. Freudo: “You’re fired.”
Pass the fruitcake.
