A Rant A Day Keeps the Psychiatrist Away

Must. Vent.

Ass. Hurts. From. Sitting. But. Must. Belt. Out. This. Post.

My last post consisted of my complaining about something or other, a career or whatever, abandoning my people, becoming a no-good-foul-traitor, but all of those worries have been eradicated. I will be pursuing another degree in physics while simultaneously keeping my connections to the mental health community by remaining employed as a peer counselor, participating in trainings, and eventually getting involved with NAMI: In Your Own Voice. So, all that complaining I did in the last post? Yeah, ignore that, I figured it out.

This post is a different kind of complaining. This post is more . . . hmm, what’s the word?

Seriously, what’s the word? How about you read the post and then tell me in the comments a word that sums all this shit up.

It’s been . . . five months? Six months off medication? I’m not exactly sure how long it’s been. I haven’t heard any variation of voices since the night I tried to kill myself (a post about that wonderful experience here) and my mood has been relatively–relatively–stable.

I feel like I need to re-customize this blog. The fact that the titles of the post don’t show up on the homepage literally makes me want to kick a bird.

I would never do that, I love animals.

I do this with my cat on the daily, and 99% of the time she fucking hates it

And this is the type of energy I’ve had since I quit those godawful medications. A warning to anyone attempting the Trintellix route: BE CAREFUL. It’s very understudied, still very new in terms of psychiatric medications go, and it fucked me up when I got off of it. My blood would have been on that companies’ hands.

I did have a bit of a breakdown yesterday, the first major one in five months, and that’s what’s prompting me to write this post. Just when you think you’re through the thickest part of the forest, you turn west and an abundance of pine trees cover your path in thicket.

While writing a different post for a different blog, I recounted my childhood in relation to school, specifically math classes. And while writing I got this overwhelming sensation, this bombardment of pain, a deep pain, a subconscious pain, one my conscious mind couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t type anymore, the words were so muddied it felt like every sentence sounded like jumbled shit.

I couldn’t identify any other emotion besides pain. I couldn’t recount what kind of pain it was. I was sad, hurt, frustrated, confused–it felt like I was one of those Russian dolls that have smaller dolls hidden inside of it, and one of the smaller dolls was screaming in agony while simultaneously being burned alive, raped, and verbally accosted.

I’m sorry for that picture, but that’s the depth of the pain.

School is generally shit for most people. Very rarely have I met a person who said: “I liked everything about every year of my school and I don’t have one embarrassing or bad memory related to it”. If you are one of those people, comment or email me, because I want to hear your story.

But school wasn’t that horrible for me. I didn’t talk, suffered through Selective Mutism for a while, then paralyzing anxiety. I had trouble making friends, I was shit in math, and I was an outcast. No one really bullied me because I was tall, athletic, and hung out with kids who brought tasers and drugs to school. Home life was hard: surrounded by domestic violence, drugs, alcohol, emotional torment. And while I recognize all of that as a sort of systematic trauma, I thought for sure my awareness of it would cut down on the effect it has on me. Apparently I was wrong.

There must be some memory–or memories–of which I’ve either repressed or I just ignore and refuse to explore because there is an inner child, an inner part of me, that is consistently crying, screaming, cowering. It never stops. And sometimes there’s a “trigger” that ignites this part of me, like writing about my childhood.

A therapist I had at the Outpatient group I attended insisted I get in touch with my inner child but the closer I got to speaking with her the more distant and dissociated I became. That was another catalyst for that wonderful get-in-the-tub-and-kill-yourself incident you can read about in the above linked post.

Another trigger for me is when teachers say “Alright, we’re going to do an activity today” or “We’ll do something fun today”. The word “activity” alone sparks my fight and flight response whether it’s at a team meeting at work or a class or a workshop or a training. Or, when people say “you’re so quiet.” Even when they mean it in a good way.

Speaking of training, I have a three hour one on Wednesday of which has been really fucking with my head. I don’t do well around large groups of people and if I’m forced to do a role play in front of even five people I will spontaneously combust. I will.

I’m scared to touch my inner child with a ten foot pole because it seems like a volatile, unstable, nuclear ball of energy. I know I need to do it in order to properly heal, but I haven’t found anyone who can help me through that process yet. The last therapist I had who I paid for not only discounted my job and my skills, but insisted I get a second job even through I was curling on her couch crying my eyes out every session. I could barely hold my head up, and she wanted me to push myself harder.

I’m done with those kind of people in my life. Sometimes it’s not about pushing through the hard stuff, sometimes it’s about holding the hard stuff.

It feels good to post on here again, a real post. Not a whiny, woe-as-me post, but a thoughtful, reflective rant.

The word to sum up this post: Fuck.

The Night I Tried to Kill Myself

I don’t quite know how to put this experience into words. I haven’t written for some time again, due to feelings of inadequacy, depression, and general brain fog. I can’t seem to form coherent sentences as quickly as I used to, nor can I focus for long periods of time on something that I have a deep love for.

Thursday, 10.25.18 I remember walking into the outpatient center I attend for a therapy session. I remember the feelings of utter hopelessness attending with me, like a sack lunch I was carrying to school. I had made the decision to give up. I was tired of fighting, I was tired of trying to fight, and I was tired of the only option being fighting. I was tired of fighting myself, I was tired of, for the millionth time in my mental health career, coming off of medication, and I was tired of hearing I needed medication to thrive.

I was taking 10 milligrams of Abilify and 10 milligrams of Trintellix and I couldn’t find the energy to finish homework, or get out of bed, and I didn’t have the luxury of feeling any emotion at all: happiness, sadness, inquisitiveness, passion–nothing. And so I did what I always do: stopped the medication.

This usually happens without consequence. For the most part, I’ll stop cold turkey after a couple of months, struggle through a few physical withdrawal symptoms, and get on with my lifestyle. The last time I stopped these two meds, I regained my energy quickly, breezed through four classes, and managed happiness until the opinions of those I care about convinced me to try the medication again.

So I tried again, For maybe two and a half weeks. Then I stopped. I stopped and I noticed my energy did not come back. My mood was stable until it wasn’t. It plummeted. I focused a lot on what was wrong with me, the disappointment of my relationship ending (yes, I’m still stuck on that), and the worries of the future regarding my education, where I’m going to live after December, and the simple fact that I struggle taking care of myself. Those are the surface issues. There are deeper issues I don’t think I’m in touch with yet.

I’ve struggled with depression since I was ten years old. A low mood was nothing new to me, in fact I welcomed it because the darkness was comforting. It was an old friend, a sinister reminder that life is suffering and suffering reminds us that we’re alive. I was thankful for this friend to return because on the medication I didn’t feel alive.

I started planning fun things to do to keep me from falling further: A concert, an overnight trip to San Francisco, Halloween plans and costumes. I got excited: the week of the 21st would be marvelous.

But I started separating from myself.  I don’t remember when, and I don’t remember how, but part of me blacked out. I know I was around and talking to people because I went to work, had laughs, made plans. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I was there.

By Thursday, the 25th, I was moving slowly, not comprehending where I was, no hope or vision for the future, and I’d even lost interest in Halloween, my favorite holiday. I confessed to the therapist that I didn’t have energy to care much about my life, nor could I answer her questions. I didn’t tell her I’d made a plan to (somehow) kill myself after Halloween. It wasn’t fully developed yet, an undercooked chicken in the oven.

I don’t remember much about the session other than the ending: a mindful meditation seeking to locate my inner child. I remember a lot of pain resurfacing, so deep and profound I had never felt it before, and I snapped. I was gone. She asked me how I felt, and I told her dissociated, separated from myself. I remember that. She made me do some grounding activities to bring me back into my body. I don’t think they worked.
That night I went to a concert. It put me in a seemingly better mood.

Friday and Saturday I spent the days in San Francisco at the Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, Six Flags, and around town. Saturday evening, on the drive back, a sinister part of me reminded me of my plan.

I’m not a stranger to hearing voices. I don’t hear them every day, and I haven’t had a bad episode in a while, not since my last hospitalization last year, but this time was different. This time I heard nothing external, and everything internal.

We all have an inner voice that reads to us, thinks for us, and we are in control of that voice, we dictate it. I’m dictating it now as I read back what I wrote, and as I write. But what I listened to that Saturday evening was not of my own doing. A different voice, a male voice, one inside of my head that I had no control of, which directly told me I needed to kill myself. He instructed me to open the door of the car and jump out in traffic–on the highway–and end it. He addressed me as “you” and I addressed me as “I”. That’s the only difference I can pinpoint right now. When I had a thought of my own, I said to myself “I need to calm down”. When I didn’t, he said “you need to do this. There’s no reason for you to live, you don’t deserve life.”

Was this a demonic entity interfering with my thoughts? I didn’t know. I sat paralyzed in the rental car my Ex drove, crying consistently for an hour and a half. The torment wouldn’t stop. “You don’t deserve to live. There’s nothing good about you. Jump out of the car. End it. When you get home, kill yourself. Hang yourself in the closet, no one will even find you.”

I had plans that evening with another friend, so I did not act on those commands. I did, however, drink quite a bit of whiskey and wander around the downtown city. When I got home, I drank more whiskey and fell asleep.

In the morning I awoke instantly crying. The day was Sunday, 10.28.18. I turned on Breaking Bad: I’ve never seen it before. I don’t remember much of the episodes because my head was so loud: “hang yourself in the closet. Take a knife, slit your wrists. You will never amount to anything. You don’t deserve to be on this earth, you don’t contribute to anything.” I joined in: “I can’t write anymore. I can’t enjoy things anymore. I don’t see this getting any better”.

It was 6pm that night when I finally stood up and searched my apartment for something, anything to hang myself with. I didn’t feel in control of my body, I was just going along with the motions.

“Fill up the tub, get in the water, slit your wrists.”

I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and filled up the tub. I remember this part more clearly than other parts because my heart was beating out of my chest, my hands were clammy, and I couldn’t get a grip on myself, I felt like I was losing myself to someone else.

I got in the water with my clothes on and fought the noise in my head. I tried to give myself reasons to live–family, my cat, work–but it was always overpowered by that other voice. I spent a half an hour sawing at my wrists with a dull blade that could barely cut a tomato. I pressed as hard as I could and my skin barely broke. Eventually, I threw the knife. I remember a lot of crying and banging my head on the wall and hitting myself. The noise wouldn’t stop. I ripped out the string from my leggings I had on and wrapped it around my neck and pulled and pulled and pulled. Thinking back on it, I would probably pass out before I die, given my hands are the one pulling the strings, but in the moment I just needed to cause some sort of harm to myself. I kept trying the knife in between strangling myself and I sent one text message that I don’t remember.

It was a couple hours before I stopped. My neck was sore and I had stopped crying, but I wasn’t back in my body yet. The water was cold and I heard the front door open and footsteps running in.

We spent a couple hours talking, and I was gone completely. I don’t remember an ounce of the conversation. I remember seeing through my eyes my body stand up and go for the knife, go for the string, and my ex preventing me from doing so. I remember telling him I didn’t want to traumatize him.

There’s a block on my memory of the conversation, what I said, what he said. I remember being on the couch wrapped in blankets, soaking wet, distraught, eating pizza. I didn’t remember the last time I had food. It couldn’t have been too long. I took a Seroquel. I only had three or four left. It’s a shame I didn’t have a full bottle, or I would have just swallowed them all and called it a night.

The next day I didn’t awake until 1pm. I could barely move, my mind was paralyzingly loud, and I turned on more Breaking Bad. The urge to die was so strong. People took turns watching after me, texting me, calling me. I refused to let anyone call 911. The hospital is not a place to be when you’re in a crisis.

Today is Halloween. My head isn’t loud. I came back into my body and have trouble remembering what the depression felt like because I feel I wasn’t the one to feel it–this entity within me, whether it’s paranormal or just a fractured part of my self, is hell bent on destroying me.  I haven’t experienced a dissociative experience so destructive since high school.

Am I still depressed? I think. Mildly. Or it’s so severe that I’m incapable of comprehending the severity of it.

I didn’t learn to love life from this attempt. I didn’t learn to appreciate the little things or find new meaning or purpose. I still feel lost and confused. A hospital visit isn’t going to change that. What I did learn is that I’m more committed than ever to never taking psychiatric medication again in my life. After 7 years of being a guinea pig, I’m done.

My outpatient group counselor asked me why I despised medication so much. I told her it’s poison. She asked in what way. I told everyone in that room that long term treatment results in heart issues, liver issues, physical ailments that permanently scar your internal body and shorten your life span.

She said okay,  well, then would you rather kill yourself now and not have a life to live, or have some little problems a little later?

I said that was a dumb question, and that heart arrhythmia’s aren’t little problems. I said I’d rather kill myself than subject my body to synthetic chemicals.

And through this experience, if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only two ways I will die is by my own hand or nature’s hand. I will not slowly die at the hands of greedy monsters making a profit off my death. If anyone is going to shorten my life span, it’s going to be me.

Should 911 have been called on me? Probably. I’m worried what I will do after Halloween–my original plan–and where my mindset will go. I’m worried I won’t be able to receive the support people are offering because I don’t know how. I’m convinced there is nothing left for me and that the only thing keeping me alive right now is fear of the unknown and a low threshold for pain. I’m worried this depression will slide past, unnoticed, and sky rocket into something more. I’m worried I’m not going to find a purpose again, that I’m not going to find a reason to live. I’m worried I’ll never feel passionate about anything again, or optimistic. I’m worried I’m shutting down, like the last stages of liver cancer. I’m worried I’ll pass as functional and be in misery for the rest of my life, however short or long that is. I’m worried someone will convince me to go back on medication. I’m worried that the only thought in my head right now is that I give up.

I’m worried that, recently, every time someone offers their help, my response now is “I don’t want it.”

How Creepy Can I Get? Just A Little . . .

Now that the business of Plagiarism (Please skim the link if you haven’t) is out of the way: on to a real post.

It would be easier to think if the dudes outside weren’t sawing marble counter-tops in half. I like when neighbors move out because it always gets a little quieter . . . until the cleaning crew gets here and starts cleaning carpets with a fucking dinosaur and chopping down walls and putting in all new counters. I guess you have to make these apartments look nice if you’re going to charge new tenants five hundred dollars more than you charge the rest of your current tenants. I’d tell the newcomers of the scheme if I wasn’t so afraid my mom’s rent would then also get raised five hundred more dollars.

Money is fun. Money is nice. Money buys me things. Money keeps my stomach full. But that’s about all it’s good for. I don’t understand how people give up their life, their humanity, for it. It’s pure insanity.

I heard they’re starting to develop ketamine and glutamate antidepressants. I’m curious about these. They’ll probably undergo a five week trial, a quick overview from the FDA and be on the shelves of your doctor’s mind within the next year or so without any accurate explanation of side-effects or efficacy but at least they’re not SSRI’s or SNRI’s.

I don’t understand why people underestimate talk therapy, especially people who try talk therapy for three months and sit on their couch like . . . ugg, why isn’t this shit working? Well, it’s only been three months. Have you only been depressed for three months? Most likely not. Your brain is very similar to a muscle: the only way it gets stronger is if you work it. All the time you spend telling yourself therapy isn’t working could be spent using the tools your therapist gives you to deal with your pain.

Your medication isn’t going to not make you think negatively. It’s not magic. It’s more like sometimes helpful dogshit presented to you on a silver platter with empty promises.

I know when I was on antidepressants I didn’t have the brain power to think as much–that kind of helped. It was like a cloudy fuzz over all my problems. Like putting a band-aid on a broken leg.

If there’s one thing I love doing, it’s reading articles where a bunch of dudes who think they’re smart get together, conduct a study, and then blurt out an answer a fucking deaf, mute, mentally and physically challenged two year old who had to get a hemispherectomy because of seizures could have told you. For example, talk therapy has been found to ease schizophrenia.



Well, NO SHIT SHERKLOCK. Don’t tell me that talking to people, making them feel like they’re human, that someone gives a flying fuck and doesn’t think they’re some dangerous, broken, psychotic freak eases their mental health symptoms!?!?!?!?!?! Well fuck me, I’m just . . . damn, I’m learning new things every day, aren’t I? Modern Medicine is just astounding, isn’t it? 

There should be no arguing that anti-psychotics are one of the most dangerous classes of drugs we shove down people’s throats these days. They’re meant for temporary use. They put you at high risk for heart disease and can prompt irregular heart beat and other cardiac problems that become permanent. They can damage your liver. They can cause Parkinsonian syndrome type tremors or leave you with Tardive Dyskinesia. There’s a bunch of side effects that basically fuck you over in the long run.

So why not find a way to lower the dosage, treat the people who have to take them like humans, and watch the magic happen?

Just use some common sense. I know some people’s symptoms completely disappear with medication use which is . . . fantastic . . . but most everyone else still deals with disabling symptoms day to day. They need someone (like a psychologist or decent psychiatrist) to support them because there’s so many people willing not to support them. You can’t always talk someone out of a delusion but you can listen, you can be attentive, you can let them know that if everyone else is gone you’re there and that you don’t judge them.

And you can stop giving them to kids diagnosed with ADHD. How stupid are you? They’re not approved for ADHD or children for that matter. The fact that “aggressive youngsters” are receiving a drug like Haloperidol makes me want to flip on a bitch like Sharkeisha. Just straight up punch-slap their cheek, knock ’em on the ground, and kick their fat nose in. It’s child abuse on an institutional scale.

If you think I’m not going to address people and institutions like this when I have my M.D than you are very mistaken. I’m going to ask people if they’re stupid because I’m genuinely curious. We’re all humans here, stop acting like some arrogant set of “professional” smart people. Be human and knowledgeable. People will take you more seriously. If you can’t do that, pretend. If you can’t do that, then burn your M.D and fuck off.

Our mental health system is broken in this country, that’s what it boils down to ya’ll. We’re backwards. I’m probably slightly grandiose in my thoughts when it comes to wanting to knock down these companies to size, but I don’t care. What did Steve Jobs say?

Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.

Once again, huge Steve Jobs fan. Adamant Apple boy-cotter. Go ahead, spend your life savings on an Ipad. I’ll pick up four Toshiba Handi-Books for the same price and still have enough left over to get a video game. Well . . . a used video game. Do ya’ll really pay $60 for a new game? Fuck that shit. If you still have a PS3 because you’re like me and don’t have the money for a PS4 (or if you use Xbox which . . . you’re even lucky I’m mentioning) just go to JJgames. When The Last Of Us came out, I got it for $14. Sure they’re used games but they work just fine. They’re starting to put in ps4 games, too. I think I saw Destiny on there once. They also ship internationally. Shipping is free if you’re in the U.S.

Anyway, wow, totally off topic.

I’m waiting for the day I walk into the headquarters for some of the pharmaceutical companies, yank the C.E.O and chief Marketer from their seats, and pull their hair until they cry like an infant and screech “Mercy!” Then I’ll give them a nice little dose of Thorazine so they can’t throw an aggressive tantrum as I drag them out into the snow. I’ll howl to my wolf bitches (I own wolves now). Wolf Bitches love C.E.O sandwiches.

For now, I’ll just leave you (and the C.E.O’s) with a few comforting quotes from a suicide note left by Israel Keyes, Serial Killer:

Where will you go, you clever little worm, if you bleed your host dry?

You may have been free, you loved living your lie, fate had its own scheme crushed like a bug; you still die.

Soon, now, you’ll join those ranks of dead or your ashes the wind will soon blow. Family and friends will shed a few tears, pretend it’s off to heaven you go. But the reality is you were just bones and meat, and with your brain died also your soul.

Get in your big car, so you can get to work fast, on roads made of dinosaur bones. Punch in on the clock and sit on your ass, playing stupid ass games on your phone. Paper on your wall, says you got smarts. The test that you took told you so, but you would still crawl like the vermin you are, once your precious power grids blown.

Send the dying to wait for their death in the comfort of retirement homes, quietly/quickly say “it’s for the best” it’s best for you so their fate you’ll not know. Turn a blind eye back to the screen, soak in your reality shows. Stand in front of your mirror and you preen, in a plastic castle you call home.

Land of the free, land of the lie, land of scheme: Americanize! Consume what you don’t need, stars you idolize, pursue what you admit is a dream . . . 

Okay, talk is over, words are placid and weak. Back it with action or it all comes off cheap. Watch close while I work now, feel the electric shock of my touch, open your trembling flower, or your petals I’ll crush.

Sweet Dreams.

Smoke And Mirrors

If my boyfriend wasn’t my boyfriend, food would be my boyfriend.

I scarf it down way too fast, but it’s delicious, I can’t help acting like I’m on an army base with a full plate and three minutes until boot camp starts.

Anyway, whatever. What I am glad of is that my dad finally got a good doctor. When the doctor saw him do his thing where he breathes deep and scratches at his hand really fast and stares with wide eyes at you and only smiles like the Cheshire Cat when you call his name, the doctor said “well that’s a temporal lobe seizure”.

Finally, a doctor got to see what we deal with every other week.

The days he goes to the hospital (including the day I blogged about it), are being misdiagnosed. TIA’s are mini strokes and can precede an actual stroke. He’s been having them for a couple years now. I’m positive they’ve been seizures. It would explain why he was just yanking on the door with it locked (and couldn’t unlock it) and why he was crawling around in circles on the floor. It would explain why yesterday I found him just standing in the middle of the floor leaning over to one side scratching really fast at his hand and smiling like the Cheshire Cat at me when I called his name and why he limped his way outside in a circle while I ran after him saying “what’s going on; what’s going on?” and him replying “I wanted to see what you got me” over and over again. It would also explain why a minute later he was in the house again cooking himself something to eat and having a conversation with me like nothing happened.

So, problem solved . . . sort of it. He doesn’t know why they’re happening (I have my theories) and all my dad had done today were blood tests and urine tests regarding his kidneys and other stuff, along with a new blood pressure medication. My mother told me the doctor is a really chill guy who really cares about helping his patients (he actual had a good conversation with both of them regarding background health) which is good considering the psychotic sons of bitches we’ve had before through the county.

The one pill pusher doctor we had, which I think I’ve blasted in a post when I first started this blog, actually had the BALLS to invite us to his retirement party. I wanted like hell to go just so I could take his invitation and shove it straight up his ass.

Sure, I have social anxiety and sure, I’m extremely nervous around authority figures (particularly professors/teachers or anyone who knows more than me) but when it comes to doctors (or police officers) I could give two shits about their status. Police officers are easy, just tell the truth. I only get nervous socially when I have to give my opinion because people can shoot that down easy and that’s embarrassing. You can shoot down the truth all you want, it’s still the truth. I’m lucky most of them can’t tell my ethnicity from just staring at me so when I get pulled over and they can’t see through my tinted windows and they come around the driver’s side to see a kind of white but kind of black but not exactly Latina woman sitting there, I always get a “Oh . . . how’s it going today?” greeting.

I probably also posted about the time one was four cars behind me, put on his sirens, and instead of pulling over the ones in front of him (all of which pulled to the curb) he came behind me. He was the one who was most surprised when he saw me in the driver’s seat. He gave me a ticket for a brake light that was out. I have three. You only need two. He was a fucktard. Even the sheriff who signed off my ticket was like “what the hell did he give you a ticket for?”

I got pulled over a few months later for expired tags and asked the officer if it was legal to pull me over for only having two of the three lights working. He stumbled over his words and said “there’s a grey area”.

So whatever. I should have fought the ticket. If it ever happens again, I will.

But anyway, back to doctors. I’m not nervous around doctors. I’m nervous going to the doctors because I know I have to deal with the receptionist, sitting around all the people, and having to talk to the nurses (I can feel my heart pounding just thinking about it) and I’m even nervous when I talk to the doctor because they are humans. But I’m not nervous if I feel like they’re trying to fuck me over. I get mildly angry at first, then enraged. And at that point I will tell them straight up.

Like the one doctor who tried telling me Lexapro didn’t cause the giant cystic acne bumps on my face. What she didn’t know is that 1) I’m an expert in acne, I’ve had it since I was 10 years old and I’d never developed that kind, and 2) I’d spent two days researching the correlation between Lexapro and Acne and there is indeed a correlation; 30 thousand other people reported it. That’s not a coincidence. That was also the day I quit that shit before they tried to give me antibiotics for the acne.

And guess what? The bumps disappeared (apart from the bit of acne I still get every once in a while)

But Lexapro pissed me off, not only because of all the nightmares it gave me and the very little relief, but I had just healed my skin from acne’s torturous path and here that shit came causing more scars than I’d originally gotten rid of. I’m still having to rub aloe cactus leaves on my face just to get them to fade a little and it’s been three years since I’ve been on that crap.

Coincidence: also started having panic attacks after I got off Lexapro. I think I’ve said that before.

Well, anyway, we all know science now says anxiety is actually caused by too much serotonin so . . . you know, trust science. Trust in it. It’ll cure all your woes. Even if your woes could be cured without it.

Whatever. The point is, don’t not stand up to your doctor just because they’re a doctor. How do you expect to get full treatment if you’re not involved in it? Then you’re just riding a roller coaster in the dark with some stranger as the driver. One of my friends went to a psychologist to help with her anxiety (she’d had to move out of her parents house because it was just . . . bad; she and I were 15 when she left) and the first thing the psychologist suggested was anti-anxiety and anti-depression medications. I was laughing to the point of tears when she told me she stood up off that couch and started saying “don’t give me that bullshit; I came to you so I could talk, so I could sort out my problems, not so you could shove some bullshit down my throat”.

I laughed because it is so like her. She will speak her mind no matter who you are and she recognizes that her life is hers, not to be dictated by someone with a piece of paper that says, hey; I’m a professional.

Well, you’re a professional in yourself. They’re a professional in their field. That means you have to work as a team to learn about each other. And I’m thankful to the county doctor involved with my family who is like that. Right away he ordered all the proper tests, made Medicare pay for a blood pressure cuff, gave him better blood pressure medications (his was about 190/90; it can easily hit 230/90), and even set him up with a counselor to start working on his alcoholism. We need more like him, especially in the welfare programs.