Gah mornings are the worst.
My favorite shrink Ellis once told me this was typical of depression; your average wing-nut doesn’t begin to ‘feel’ any better until late in the day or evening.
Hell, if I knew that I would have kept drinking and at least had a physical reason to feel suicidal, hopeless and worthless after getting out of bed.
My current cocktail consists of Effexor, Cymbalta, Neurontin, and Lamactil. The anxiety and panic attacks are far worse since losing my insurance and therefore doctor. To wit: I no longer have a prescription for xanax.
How am I obtaining the other meds I hear you ask?
Well, um, dad is a shrink.
Yeah. Being a whack-job is definitely hereditary. I dare you to find a kid raised by a mental health professional who isn’t in therapy or analysis.
Go ahead. Double dare ‘ya.
Wanna see a portion of my life? Go rent Garden State.
The protagonist is the son of a psychiatrist whose father has been prescribing him handfuls of medication for his entire life. Heh.
If nothing else you’ll love the soundtrack and if you’re anything like me the movie will grab you as well.
When I say ‘anything like me’ it indicates chronic depression, bi-polar disorder, major-league neurosis and a history of playing the classic family parlor game: anti-depressant roulette.
So it’s morning now and I’ve had my coffee, cried for awhile, and chatted with a friend on IM. At some point I have to get a few things done around the house.
Wait. Better idea. Run away from home.
I’ll pack the sandwiches and a change of clothes. You bring the change you find under the sofa cushions and a transistor radio.
Our parents will never miss us.
Neither will our kids.