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| Hot air balloons, the price of cigars, my wife's back, etc. :( by Jerry Whorebach 09/23/2008, 8:22am PDT | ||||
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| I was pretty worried about my last psychiatric appointment, because I hadn't been doing any of the things I said I was going to do (coffee shop and library, once per week, for no less than 45 minutes each). Dr. Feelgood (I call him that because he made me skim a book about feeing good) even gave me extra meds to bolster my determination: a few hundred tabs of clonazepam, of which I've been taking two each day alongside my paroxetine for over a month now. All they do is make me stumble more, and they can fuck you up the ass if you ever STOP taking them, so alright whatever.
I was feeling pretty pressured and woozy and that's when I decided enough was enough. I stormed into my appointment and immediately launched into the business of gently firing my caregivers in such a way that they wouldn't do anything vindictive, like tell the government I'm probably sane enough for janitorial work or whatever. I explained how I've been seeing them for three years now and we don't seem to be getting anywhere, and I certainly don't blame them because I know they've tried (GOOD LORD how they've tried), the thing is I have some issues that I think are stopping me from going any further, and I need to take some time to address those before I can fully commit to a course of treatment. They are busy, important, sexually desirable people and I can't in good conscience continue stringing them along like this. Long story short, not only do I have to keep seeing them, but now I also have to practice breathing three times a day, and maintain detailed breathing logs for a nurse to peruse and sign off on. BUT! I don't have to do any more exposure therapy ("Starbucksing"), until such time as we can come up with an all new plan for inducing controlled stress that hopefully I won't once again fail to follow through on (psh, good luck with that). All in all, I would say I had a pretty productive week. Oh, and I also broke down twenty feet of extra-heavy-duty, two-inch-thick armored cable into its resaleable components (copper, aluminum, and worthless plastic) in under three hours, using only my pocket knife and incredible retard strength. I don't know enough about industrial salvage to know if that's good or not, but I felt pretty pleased with myself afterwards. Pleased, and sore, and a hundred bucks richer. (It was worth twice that, but I had to split it with my mom, who found it in the basement of her new house.) |
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