A Date With Tom Cruise

A couple of nights ago I was out to dinner with a girl friend of mine and, to my complete surprise, she brought along an unexpected guest: a pudgy fellow who, according to the discreet text message she sent me under the table, was my "perfect match". I immediately knew that there was no way this could be true, as the young man was wearing a t-shirt with the name of a band on it that I absolutely detest. However, my good mother always taught me to be polite when meeting new people, so I agreed to give the poor guy a chance.
  I asked him some polite questions about the weather. He responded with an airy "Oh, Texas weather. I'm so over it." I wasn't quite sure what to say to this so I asked him some more polite questions, inquiring as to what his hobbies were, what he did for a living, et cetera. As he responded to my questions, with increasingly long, drawn-out, pretentious, and self-absorbed answers, I began to stare at him in wonder. "What a piece of work," I thought, pizza halfway to my mouth. "This fellow hasn't asked me a single question about myself the entire night."
  I had firmly decided that Mr. Pudge could not possibly become any more annoying when I discovered an entirely unpleasant fact about my new friend. Something that immediately crushed any chance we may have had together. (Truthfully, he never had a chance. As soon as he made that oh-so-cool comment about the weather I knew it was over.)  The unpleasant fact I discovered? He was a Tom. I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. I probably should've been able to tell by his lengthy description of his mission in life: "to reject and reform modern society". (What does that mean? You've got me.) Most hippies and/or so called "artsy" people happen to be Toms. I've grown used to this fact. It's just the way life is.
   By this point you're probably scratching your head and thinking "What on earth is a 'Tom'"? Let me clue you in. Remember in 2005 when Tom Cruise officially went off his rocker? There was the couch-jumping incident, the marrying a girl 25 years younger than him incident, the feud with his movie studio incident, there were a whole lotta incidents for Tom in 2005. However, my personal favorite is The Feud With Brooke Shields Incident. If you're completely ignorant of celebrity culture, let me give you a brief outline of what occurred in that fateful year of 2005. Ms. Shields came out with a book detailing her struggles with post-partum depression. In the book, she credited the anti-depressant drug Paxil, plus weekly sessions with a therapist, for helping her to overcome her life-threatening depression. Ms. Shields said that at one point she was so depressed and anxious she considered taking her own life, as well as her newborn baby's.
    Now why did Tom Cruise feel the need to poke his (in my opinion) overly-large nose into Brooke Shields's business? That's anyone's guess. (I do have a few theories, but I'll save them for another time. One of them is downright scandalous.) For some unfathomable reason, Tom was suddenly making the media rounds babbling on and on and on (and on) about what horrible life choices Brooke Shields was making. He was on tv, he was in the newspaper, he was everywhere, telling everyone, that Brooke had made a dangerous and terrible decision in taking anti-depressant medications. Tom then made his infamous appearance on the Today Show with Matt Lauer. (If you haven't seen the Tom vs. Matt smackdown, I'd highly suggest you youtube it immediately.)
   Matt asked Tom what was so wrong with Brook Shields taking anti-depressants, and Tom, well, he went a little crazy. Actually, he went a whole lot of crazy. Tom blasted Brooke, and Matt, for using modern medications. (Note: Tom is a Scientologist, and the Church of Scientology doesn't believe in medication or psychiatric treatment for mental disorders.) Tom insisted, very firmly, (so firmly, in fact, that he was literally leaning off his seat and repeatedly jabbing a finger forcefully into Matt's face, to this day I'm surprised Matt managed to keep both of his eyeballs) that Brooke's depression was all in her head, and that if only she would take vitamins, exercise daily, and think positive thoughts she would be cured. Poof! Instantly. Matt and Tom continued to get into a very heated argument, Tom repeatedly insisting that putting a person on medications for a mental disorder such as depression is wrong, because the problem is all in said person's head, and medication simply masks the problem and makes them a weaker individual.
   The best part of the whole incident was when Ms. Shields published a letter in the New York Times criticizing Tom. (My personal favorite line was when she expressed doubt that Tom had ever suffered from post-partum depression.) Apparently Tom has since apologized to Ms. Shields, and acknowledged that he was out of line with his comments. But he still firmly maintains his beliefs that taking medication to treat a mental disorder is wrong, and that most disorders can be cured by vitamins and happy, sparkly thoughts.
   So what has yours truly gleaned from the infamous battle between Tom and Brooke? Well, I've learned that there are two kinds of people out there: there are people who believe in medication and therapy, and then there are the Toms. To be honest, I hate Toms. Toms annoy the heck out of me. I suppose this is partly because every Tom I've ever met (and I've had the good fortune to meet quite a few of them) has never admitted to struggling with any kind of mental problem, be it ADD, OCD, PTSD, GAD, depression, panic disorder, and, my personal favorite, social anxiety disorder.
    The Toms I've met are all completely and utterly normal. They belong to a strange segment of the population that I like to refer to as the Normal People. Toms have nothing wrong with them. Well, not health-wise anyway. However, most Toms that I've encountered are judgy, holier-than-thou, and completely unwilling to try and understand something that they just can't imagine invading their perfect normal little worlds.
    Toms look down on people who take medications or who are in therapy because they think a) people who have disorders are either trying to get attention, hypochondriacs, or simply weak individuals, and b) they think therapy is silly and expensive. (Which is half-way true. Psychiatrists should be arrested for robbing the public blind.) I'll be frank and admit that my parents are largely Toms. I love my parents more than anything in this world, but they do have a tendency to promote exercise and positive thinking over taking medications.
   I admire them for those suggestions, because they're true. Exercising and practicing positive thinking are both very important when a person has an anxiety disorder or depression. I'm trying to incorporate both into my battle against social anxiety disorder. (The exercise part is still very much a work in progress.) However, I firmly believe that taking certain medications is vital to my well-being. I agree that medications are not for everyone. There are a lot of folks out there who haven't tried any other methods of getting better, and are just eager to get their fill of pills. These people are just lazy when it comes to taking care of themselves, in my opinion.
   Then there are people who do have a disorder such as social anxiety disorder, but their conditon isn't effecting their life in a way that they need to take a prescription drug. I used to consider myself one of those people, but that was when I was in the denial stage. My denial stage ended when I woke up and realized one day that having severe, uncontrollable gagging attacks before social events, as well as before simple day-to-day events, wasn't quite normal.
    I've tried several different medications, in different dosages, and some of them have worked and some of them haven't. I'll be honest and say that currently my doctor (a very nice, educated woman, definitely not a Tom) has me taking Lexapro, an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant, and clonazepam, a muscle relaxant. So far I've found that both medications have seemed to be helping with my attacks. However, I agree that I can't simply swallow the pills every day and expect my social anxiety and panic attacks to go away. I need to take care of myself in other ways, too, just like my wise parents suggested. I believe that if a person is struggling with an anxiety disorder or depression they need to be taking the proper medication under a doctor's supervision, as well as stay active, avoid triggers, and eat a healthy diet. (I'm working on the healthy diet part. Homer Simpson once said donuts are healthy because they have purple sprinkles on them, and purple's a fruit right? So far I'm sticking with Homer.)
   Let's go back and visit with my new friend, Mr. Pudge, and when I discovered that he was a Tom. I had casually mentioned that I enjoyed writing, and managed to slip in the fact that I write a blog. Pudge asked me(yes, he actually stopped patting himself on the back for his many accomplishments long enough to ask me a question) what the blog was about, and I explained that it was about my struggles with social anxiety. What followed was a very long silence. I took this to mean that Pudge had no idea what social anxiety meant, so I hastily tried to explain. I informed him that I wanted to help other people with anxiety disorders, as well as people with depression, by letting them know that they aren't alone and they shouldn't think of themselves as freaks. "The Normal People are the freaks in my opinion," I told him, nodding firmly.
   Pudge considered me for a moment. "I was depressed for two years in high school," he said, in a tone that suggested I should ask him for all the gritty details. I admit I was a tad curious. "Really?" I asked, leaning in eagerly. Maybe I had judged Pudge too fast. Maybe he was one of Us, and not one of those infuriating Normal People. "Yeah," he said, leaning back in his chair, and getting a far-away look in his squinty little eyes,"Yeah I was. It was real bad." I began to feel guilty for judging Pudge purely on his band t-shirt. "I'm sure that was hard for you," I said empathetically,"What happened? Did someone close to you pass away?"
   The serious tone of the conversation was abruptly cut off by a loud guffaw from Pudge. "Huh?", he asked looking totally confused. (Truthfully, he had looked totally confused during the entire dinner. I assumed that was his natural facial expression.) He laughed heartily. "Aw man, it was nothin' like that! I just started listening to a lot of sad goth music and got real depressed." He stopped laughing suddenly, his expression turning somber. "But it was bad, dude. Real bad."
   I tried to collect myself. "So, you were depressed? Did you get any help?" His signature confused expression had returned. "Help?" he asked, "Whaddya mean help?" I felt that maybe I wasn't speaking clearly or loudly enough. "Did you see a doctor? Take any medicine to help you get better?" I said in a loud voice.
   Pudge eyed me over his beer glass. (I think this was his third beer? His fourth? I'd lost count some time ago.) "Depressed people are full of sh*t," he informed me, in a tone that suggested this was the Law of the Land. "They need to get over themselves." I felt a prickle of irritation. "Not all people who are depressed or overly anxious or panicky can just snap their fingers and feel better," I said icily.
  Pudge downed a swig from his glass. "Nah, that's not true," he said, as if speaking to someone who was very slow,"Sure they can. When I was depressed, I didn't have to take meds or nothin'. That sh*t clouds your mind. Hides your true essence."
    I briefly imagined what the bowl of marinara sauce in front of me would look like splashed all over Pudge's head. I liked the idea of dumping it on him and taking off. Relished it, actually. Somehow, I managed to restrain myself. "What do you mean your true essence?" I asked. "Are you saying you don't believe in medication for people with mental issues?"
   He nodded sagely. "I got over my issues by telling myself to get the f*ck over it. Other people should do that, too. People who take medications are just clouding their mind. They can't really commune with their true essence." He took a long swig of beer. "It's lame. They're lame."
   Pudge had officially crossed the line from self-absorbed idiot to something even worse: a Tom. I can't stand to be in the presence of Toms. Especially drunk, wanna-be hippie Toms. I grabbed my cell phone. "You know what? I have to go. I'm sorry. Emergency. My dog hasn't been let out for hours." I said a quick goodbye to my very confused girl friend and ran to my car as fast as my legs could carry me. (Which wasn't very fast, due to my not having really been keeping up with my exercise routine. I was completely out of breath by the time I reached the car.)
   The next day my girl friend called me. "I can't believe you left last night!" she scolded me. "He was so into you!" I was glad she wasn't there to see my massive eye roll. "What was that guy's name anyway? I never even asked," I said. "You didn't even ask his name?" she said, aghast at my apparent rudeness,"It's a shame. I thought you two would really hit it off." "Hmm", I mumbled non-committally.
  She sighed. "Well, let me know if you want his number. Or if you want to go out with him again. Oh, and by the way, his name is Tom."