He's Got a Problem With His Poisons, But You Know He'll Find a Cure.

No, in all honesty, this was me at the grocery store yesterday, except I wasn't talking to anyone, I was just sort of wandering around, but the Ridgeys (that's what the *few* alterna-chicks in Park Ridge call the average robotic, suburban women) were out and about, mostly in workout gear and not bonnets, but you'll get the general gist:

I kind of feel in between that and THIS, and no, I'm not the giant American Indian chief:

Last Thursday's visit with the new psychiatrist, by all accounts, went well. I WILL say that walking into a doctor's office carrying a pocket diagnostic guide of the DSM-V *is* a helpful way to start a conversation with a crazy person (me). She asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was a 2nd year graduate student in psychology. I also told her I've been bipolar cycling more quickly than Lance Armstrong on dope (how she translated that in her chart notes, I'm not sure). And I am, and I was, and I have this veritable mountain of papers to write to round out summer term before I can *officially* take my sabbatical, which it would appear I'm already, uh, taking, not really by choice. I've been sleeping....a lot.

Not neglecting my child, no, he's fortified and dignified and sassyfied and all that other good stuff. He got his new computer and built his own new desk this week. He understands my mood disturbances, doesn't complain and is my solid rock of life; without whom, oh my goodness, yes, I wouldn't be around for any more of this utter fucking bullshit.

Anyway, with the shrink, I complained of chronic nighttime insomnia, and hypersomnia at odd times of the day (like during class). I also complained of being a tremendous bundle of anxiety, and how it affected other, well, facets of my biological system, which she thought made perfect sense. 

I told her I wanted to switch to a benzodiazepine with a longer half-life than Estazolam, something like Valium. (EEK! Everyone hears "Valium" and has a mini panic attack because it's so notoriously zombie-inducing. Well, ok, for good reason.) Thinking the two drugs had a similar half-life, she had to look them up, because she didn't trust my evidence that the former had a half-life of 7-10 hours and the latter had one of 10-20 hours (or somewhere thereabouts). She also didn't trust and had to look up my dosing equivalencies of 1mg of Estazolam for every 5mg of Valium, 2mg for 10mg...etc. ("Wow!" she must have thought. "It's like she has a Physician's Desk Reference or something!" which I do.) So she writes me Rx's for every damn drug imaginable that I take, and a note extending my work at school, which was followed up with a note by The Useless Therapist on Friday (God, I hope I don't achieve a moniker like "The Useless Therapist" when I'm a therapist, but that's a whole other ball of dope.) The doctor had no problem with me, uh "transitioning" between the 2 different benzos, but perhaps taking them all at once in increasing doses is contributing to the fact I sleep about 17 hours a day lately and NOTHING productive (other than fighting with fighting with people fighting for me against Guy) is getting done. 

The Useless Therapist--she spent yet another hour of my time on Friday morning writing out a treatment plan and case conceptualization that SHE asked ME to compose, yet proceeded to criticize it for sounding too "bookish." Well then gee, bitch, don't ask a psych student to write your fucking plans! And quit playing with your hair, you're driving me apeshit! How are we going to achieve these therapy goals? YOU TELL ME, YOU WRETCHED NIT. 

There is this line in Nizami's "Layla and Majnun," where Majnun (the madman) says, "When she was there; there was joy. And when she was gone, there was a lonely, raging emptiness which nothing could assuage." 

Yeah, pretty much. 

And no, he still doesn't care. I sent a rather angry text yesterday, criticizing his daughter's blog (which is admittedly a HUGE snoozefest about the uberdouchery of teaching English and lacrosse in Germany), and vividly showing him a picture of the gigantic amount of sedatives in my possession, pretty much telling him that now round about 68,000 people (via here and Facebook) have read about what an asshole he's acting like. I'm not sure *I'd* respond to that if I were Guy...I mean, what do you really say? "Um, sorry." NO. I told him no excuse will fly.

A prominent member of my church died today, Roy. There was nary a time when Roy wasn't at the church doing a myriad of tasks and improvements to the sanctuary and property. I'm deeply saddened by his loss, but his rights to Heaven, should it exist, were well earned. I've known Roy since I was able to walk and he always called me "Andy," which drove me nuts. I can't help but recall the deathbed discussion Pastor Dave had with another member, a woman, who was one of Guy's patients. She asked Pastor if she'd "done enough" to earn a place at the table with the Lord. If she'd earned Heaven. He assured her she had, but if I were to have that same discussion with Dave right now, I think the ringing answer would be "no." I haven't helped or saved enough people. I haven't finished my work. That's why, against my better pleading, God keeps not calling me home. It's not as if I don't have the tools at hand to end it all, because I do, and I'm heartbroken enough to do it. But I have a boy...that boy in the next room, to raise. And cast away your enormous ego for a second, Guy, but you're not worth it. Plus, if I survived somehow, I'd get my ass kicked by a number of people, my son first in line, Meg second, BMF 3rd, Kate 4th.

It's only 7:50 pm, and I'm ready to rest in peace for the night.

Til next time.