My place of residence is now a one woman rehab facility.

I’ll explain.

As you probably know, I am fucking nuts. To temper my nutsness, I am on psychotropic medications. One of these, the benzodiazepine, ativan, is to placate my panic attacks, and as it’s highly addictive and I’ve been on a steady dose of it for christ knows how many years, my doc (when I say “doc” or “doctor” here, I refer to my psychiatrist) and I have decided to start tapering me off it. We started a slow taper a few months ago. It was working all right, though a symptom of being off an anxiety drug is, of course, rebound anxiety. When I experience anxiety, what do I do? Take my anxiety med, of course! It’s a really goddamn difficult habit to break. (Insert Chicago song here.)

Yesterday I ran out of ativan. As it was a Sunday, I couldn’t reach my doctor, and I didn’t have any refills on it as that is part of the taper arrangement. (It’s too boring and involved to write out the whole plan.) At first, I was playing it cool. “I can do this, I feel weird, a little jumpy, but I know it’s just slight withdrawal, it’s cool, man, I can make it till tomorrow,” etc. Two hours later? Bona fide freak show. One ongoing panic attack. I took benadryl just because I knew it made me tired. I got in bed because it’s kind of a safety zone. I felt the bed shake with me. I tried breathing exercises, but those just made me more cognizant of my gerbil-like heart rate. I left a voicemail for my doctor telling him I was losing my shit and that I can’t do this, I just came out of a months-long depression and I can’t deal with kicking my anxiety just yet, I have work to do that I can’t fuck up, blah blah, blah, freak, cry, blah. Thank shit, finally the benadryl konked me out.

This morning I expected to find a sympathetic message from my doctor, the prescription called in, and the world to be back on its axis. Not to be. I called the pharmacy to see if maybe he just called in the script but had to meet with patients before he called me. Nope. Fuck! I balled up under the covers and wondered what the hell I was going to do. I wasn’t dead. Maybe I wasn’t going to die from this. Maybe.

I got out of bed. I felt like I was out of my body. Okay, this is just depersonalization, a common withdrawal symptom. I felt like I was on drugs from not being on drugs. Maybe I could enjoy this…

Aaron offered me a cup of coffee, and for a moment I wondered if I should accept something that causes jitteriness, but hell, I’m addicted to that, too. One thing at a time. I read an article in the New Yorker. I felt whacked out, for sure, but not as pants-crappingly frightened as I did last night. Things always seem worse at night. Being in a more stable state of mind, I recalled that the worst symptom of benzo withdrawal is seizure, and that two of my other meds, in addition to being anti-depressant/anti-psychotic, are also anti-seizure. I called my doctor again.
Maybe I can do this. What if I just go cold turkey from here? I did taper, though somewhat erratically. I do feel weird, but I got some work done, proving I can concentrate, though my typing is a bit clumsy (as likely demonstrated here, go easy on me).

My doc called back fairly quickly, apologizing for not getting back to me sooner, he was slammed and all. He’d just received my second message and agreed with me, saying this is what would happen if I was in rehab. I’d be taken off the drug right away and be given something supplemental, which I already had. There would be people there to hold my hand through the rough spots, and he’d be happy to be that person. Though he can’t be here with me, I can call and check in with him any time, and he’ll get back to me whenever he can. I also have Aaron (poor, poor Aaron) and my therapist, and my parents, and my friends (watch out, you guys), to turn to for support. So, hi, everyone! I’m in rehab! Just like Janice Dickinson on that show with Dr. Drew! (She was withdrawing from ativan, too.)

I made my doctor promise I wasn’t going to die from this. He said I most certainly was not. Right now I do have a headache, though. Coffee and Advil, I reckon.

Fuck me.

“Can we please stop with Randy Newman already? He sucks and he has had zero impact on the music industry aside from insulting short people and making sucky songs for movies, which people forget about as soon as the film is out of the theaters. Stop trotting out flippin’ sucky Randy Newman.”

I read this in an email and nearly flung my iPad across the room. The ignoramus who wrote it was referring to Newman’s Oscar win for Best Original Song in a Film. She is also a music industry veteran. She also is the originator of a networking group for women in entertainment in the LA area that has over 1,000 members. I am one of these members, and the above quote was a post to the email list for said networking group.

Her statement made me angry for so many reasons, and I tried to reply. I lifted my hands to the keyboard, but put them down again. Then lifted them…then lowered them. Up, down, up, down, what the fuck? I couldn’t do it! Why?

The next day I reasoned that there was just too much to say, I didn’t know where to begin, and I was so disgusted that someone so involved with music could be so mothercunting goddamn ignorant of Randy Newman’s enormous impact on music. Folks who only know him for “Short People” live in hovels and only have AM radio.

I’m sure I am preaching to the choir as my readership is comprised of super-genius music buffs. I’m also sure many of you are thinking “What? You’re actually surprised someone in the music biz has her head up her front butt?”

I know, I know. I just thought she was, you know, SMART. Or at least educated about her business. She talks the talk, but man, she just blew it to hell.

Although you, my comrades, are brilliant, and I am writing a blog entry, not a response to her uninformed, stupid-ass message, allow me to enumerate the ways she is mistaken about Mr. Newman.

1. “Short People” is a satire about prejudice. He has made statement after statement about that, but the masses failed to hear his message. (Even though the chorus actually says “short people are just like you and me”) Some radio stations even banned the song. Newman grew to dislike “Short People,” despite its commercial success, because of its misinterpreted message.

2. Randy Newman has been writing hits since the 60s, most of them chart hits for other artists: Gene Pitney, Cilla Black, Three Dog Night, Peggy Lee, Dusty Springfield, to name a few. He’s in the songwriter’s hall of fame.

3. Some of his songs, recorded by himself or other artists are fucking gorgeous. He’s one of my favorite songwriters, and believe me, I’m a tough customer. Dusty Springfield’s version of his song “I Think It’s Gonna Rain Today” is just beautiful. In fact, he wrote a handful of tunes on “Dusty in Memphis,” which is required listening for anyone I consider a friend. If you haven’t heard it, I will force it on you. I will. Speaking of his beautiful songs…

4. His album “Good Old Boys” is fucking fantastic. One of my favorite songs ever, “Marie,” is on it. Not only is this a brilliant album, but it’s an important one. It came out in 1972 and it’s a concept album, written from the perspective of a black man from the deep south. There is also a satirical song about rednecks oppressing black people, and he incorporates historical events, like the Louisiana flood of 1927 and Huey Long’s Governorship into the lyrics, as well. Amazingly, this album saw commercial success. (Often, brilliance of this calibre is lost on the public.)

5. He has scored a shitload of films, not just the ones Ms. Poopypants derides. Good ones, too. “The Natural,” “Ragtime,” “Parenthood,” christ, the list goes on and on. Just…look up his discography.

I could blather on but I think I’ve made my case. Randy Newman is a heavy hitter. Don’t you be tellin’ ME he’s had “zero impact on the music industry.” Why don’t you actually learn your shit before you open your ASS mouth to trash him, Big Wig Industry Weasel?

I’m right, she’s wrong, forever and ever, amen.