Postpartum Dads: The Complexion of the Complex

The Tom Cruise Mentality has struck a deep, resounding, often bloodwrenching chord in the drugloving loins of the American people. Nationalists abound need their pharmaceutical fix and this way of thinking could do them in. “Who is this two-bit actor type, blathering about aliens and impregnating the stars of Dawson’s Creek,” they ask. I myself am not what you would call a Tom Cruise Fan or even a Tom Cruise Apologist; his brand of nuttiness is too crunchy for my tastes. I prefer my scandalous commentary sans celestial, mutinous Alien-gods, if you know what I mean.

This is not a Scientology analysis though; God knows I’ve been down that treacherous road before. The Tom Cruise/Brooke Shields fiasco melee confrontation supreme was a landmark in this country nonetheless and it should not be ignored; please, don’t be so uninformed as to think otherwise. We need to examine this, especially in the light of this NEW information. Postpartum depression might be very real, how would I know? Look, this isn’t about the inequality of the sexes. Shit, does it have to be? That debate is a fang hungry monster in its own right and it doesn’t need to bite a chunk off the pharmaceutical-fix cow carcass, hanging idly on the rusty meathook of Brooke Shields and the legal drug community alike to gain any more exposure.

Why can’t people get depressed for depression’s sake; why must a baby be thrown into the mix here, hmmm? Is our vulture culture so desperate and depraved that even our infant young are not immune to the brutal blade of blame from switches in the hands of their very own parents? “Oh Billy,” she’ll say. “Mommy almost slit her wrists when you were born because you made me so, so sadâÂ?¦ don’t do drugs.”

And now enter Papa Bear. One crumpled up study, spoiled malaise causing hype really, junk science of the highest degree later and Daddy has a prime excuse for coiling up an extension chord and searing little Billy’s chubby leg, high on whiskey and with systematic justification waiting in the bank. I could talk about accountability all day but the nuances of that discussion might be too ripe for the eardrums of the common content intake junkie. Let’s just say that “sucking it up” and “for the good of the child” aren’t part of our vernacular anymore, as sad as that is.

Normally, I detest squaring the culpability on the shoulders of Merck, Pfizer and company, that would be too easy. The hardened road is the only path for the seasoned journalist. It’s the chicken and the egg, and I can’t ignore the possibility that Middle America, coast to coast, might be so drug hungry at this point that they need it like a crack junkie with a 39-year-old Walter buried deep in his lap, slobbering like a Down’s case in a Tootsie Roll factory. In reality, it’s everybody’s fault and in the end what we have left is this: more pretext for our inevitable failures and lonesome (read: loathsome) kids running around high on real (read: good) drugs because mommy and daddy are too busy getting help for their constructed, evil ailments.

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