Come Sail Away...

So yesterday I saw my shrink again. Is that a derogatory term? Who cares-and I went in with much trepidation because I've still been having the violent rage impulses, jitters, and that fucking itch in my brain. Last time she put me on new meds and I think I talked myself into thinking that was that; all better - see ya, doc!

I wish I had a way to monitor my countenance, other than the dreaded mirror, which I never use except to shave every few weeks because I can't stand the sight of myself, because she immediately said, "I can see you're struggling." What the hell was my mask letting through that allowed her to see the truth? Yeah, I broke down and borrowed a few tissues.

My blood pressure is still so high that she's almost certain I'll have a stroke any day, I've gained 16 pounds from eating shit (not actual shit, but prepackaged treats and sweets), and I told her that being "happy" was not even on my radar any more; I just didn't want my brains to feel so scrambled that mass destruction was winning the race. You know things are bad when your psychiatrist puts her head in her hands and asks if you would like to be hospitalized. I told her not today.

So yet another new med that kicked my ass hard and an increase of the others, a suggestion for intense therapy, and a desperate plea to see a PCP to get my blood pressure under control. I know, just another post about how fucked up some poor slob is. But if that's your takeaway from this, I heartily applaud you and sincerely hope you enjoy your superior mental health and exalted sense of self worth. I mean it; congratulations!

For many of us, though, that ship sailed long ago to lands unknown and is not coming back.