Bite me

Dear Doc,

Things are getting different and I’m not sure what to do, or if I can do anything. I feel afraid and lost. I know I’m not unique, but I am alone and my world is very small. Sometimes, I worry that it’s going to grow so small that no one at all can fit into my lil world. At times, that’s frightening…other times, it’s a relief.

My affect is still very off. This was last evidenced by a woman who said she was going to punch me in the face. Needless to say, her words did not provoke the fear response she felt they should have. Honestly, she was unarmed…I can’t get it up for that. I sat there, watching her tirade, with what I felt was a pleasant smile on my face. This was a constant source of agitation to the woman, so the situation escalated. I didn’t have to go through with what I planned to do to her, as she finally freaked out and revealed her hand; She was jealous and enraged that a certain man ‘lights up when you come in the room and I’m tired of feeling like a second class citizen!’. I assured her that, having no class whatsoever, it was impossible for her to be a second class anything. I know…gas on a fire…I get that…now.

In any case, it’s not just my vacant emotional response that’s getting worse. It’s that the voices I hear, sometimes, are changing. I hear a woman’s voice now, along with the others. And, when I was lying in bed with a friend the other night, he said something, and I heard it as my late husband’s voice. And there are hallucinations. I’ve always had them as a stress response, but these are different and frightening.

I can’t help but wonder why I’ve gotten worse since I first began seeing you. I think there is only one answer…Meds. In fact, abilify can cause hallucinations. I simply do not understand why I was prescribed that drug. I hope you understand that I have no intention of taking it. I may tell you I am, but I hope you get it when you realize I’m not. Because I’m going to get better and I’m going to do it naturally. I will find a real medicine man. In fact, I know a shaman and I will consult with him. I’m so angry at you, Doc. You can’t just throw a diagnosis, or four, on someone and then scribble out the name of some medication and expect everyone to be ok with it. People are individuals, Doc. You can’t paint us all with the same brush.

I recall how disappointed you were about the lithium. I remember how you told me that I couldn’t feel it that early on. But, if you put a foreign substance into a human body, their body is forced to process it, so it’s a ridiculous imagination to think that the person would not ‘feel’ one drug, or another, as it is in that person’s bloodstream for the whole ride. It made me feel so stupid when you said that. It was as though you thought I was lying. I assure you, I was not. Perhaps if your grandmother had filled you full of Valium and speed and pain medication since you were a small child, you’d have a hard time processing meds, too.

Another thing: You promised we didn’t have to do any gut wrenching therapy. But, you said we’re going to talk about dreams when next we meet. You do realize that those dreams are pretty fucking gut wrenching, right? I don’t know if I can sit on that couch and go over my dreams. I did start keeping a dream journal. It’s full of fairly sick shit that I decided not to post. I like to post my thoughts here. I think that my opinion counts. Some else’s counted to me, and that is what put me on the road to you. I’m not saying I don’t have any issues. I am saying that knowing what caused them doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I am not short on insight into my ‘condition’. I know exactly what caused it all. Does it help to know? Nope. Does it make it better in any way? Hell no. Does it make me sick to know? All day, every day.

I’m sorry for the rant, Doc. Overall, you’re great. There are just a couple of issues I have with you and your script pad. If you can’t start understanding more, then I don’t know what to tell you. I love your art, and your shamanesque nature. I wish you’d explore that part of yourself more so that you could share it with people like me on a deeper level. We’d benefit more than you know. If you are just in it for the money, I guess that won’t matter. I’ll figure that out, sooner or later. I will figure you out, Doc.

ehhhh…what’s up with this shit, Doc?

Dear Doc,

I should probably be sleeping by now, but I don’t want to go to bed. I’m having issues that I’m not comfortable discussing, but don’t know what to do about on my own. I guess we all have our sleepless nights, don’t we?

I’ve been up and down three times today. I hate that feeling. My mood just changes and there’s no going back when the bad moods hit. I’m not sure that there is anything so unusual about it, though. Your profession is based on some utopian view of society, where everyone behaves in a relatively uniform, happy, way. That’s just now how humans are. We are all flawed. Why is that so bad?

I’m not going to take the abilify any longer. It makes me nauseated and bland…dizzy and confused. You know that I have fibromyalgia, yet you prescribed me a drug that makes my legs hurt so bad that I can barely walk. I’d rather be sad one minute, happy the next. If I had to be that type of ‘normal’ all the time, I’d kill myself. I can’t imagine that there are people who live at that base line of emotion. It just isn’t possible. I think that psychiatry may just be a business model and not a cure, or resolution, for any real thing. I understand that there are people who are truly in need of help, but not sure that I’m one of them. Of course, I have some problems. I need you to give me some meds that will resolve those problems until I am able to figure them out, myself. Otherwise, you’re something like a parking meter that I feed in order to keep track of my troubles for me.

Not for nothing: After researching abilify, I cannot understand why you prescribed it. This is a horrible drug and I’m having serious side effects. What is it about you shrinks that causes you to guinea pig your patients? Is it fun? Are you a sadistic lot? I’m unclear on that, at the moment. I’m also quite angry. You have prescribed me a problem in a bottle. Here is a bit of info about this lovely drug…

As I am positive that you have the same access to information that I do, why have you given me this drug? That’s all I want to know.

I apologize for sounding so ungrateful. It does ease the mind to chat with someone like you. You are kind and honest and give excellent, if not somewhat simplistic, feedback. I get that it is purposely simplistic, but that doesn’t really work with me. I’m not a simpleton and it seems that the more you try to simplify, in the stead of giving me actual clinical input, the less insight I garner into my disposition. That insight is what I’m paying four bucks a minute for. I’m no genius, but…seriously…c’mon. Is this thing on????


Dear Doc,

I’m shaking like a leaf today. I don’t know why, but I feel so discombobulated. Last night’s dreams, today’s racing thoughts and the numbing anxiety are really almost too fucking much.

I slept in bed last night, for the first time since I came back from L’s. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to sleep there. But, I did, anyway, because I needed to use my cpap and stretch out. So, I did. And he came for me. All night. He almost got me, too. I can’t tell you who, because I still can’t see his face. But he got so close. Oh my God, I can’t stand it sometimes. Your fucking nightmare pills don’t work on him. Not even a little. I swear, I’m dying from this shit.

I said some shit to my mom last evening. It needed saying because I’m sick and tired of the ‘fiction’ game. You and that ‘fiction’ bullshit…seriously. Just because you call a lie a ‘fiction’ doesn’t mean it’s no longer a fucking lie. I will say that I so love the term ‘fiction’. ‘Oh, she’s caught up in a fiction, dear, she doesn’t remember what’s true.’ It does sound lovely…to be caught up in a fiction. It sounds as though someone is lost in a paradise of their own creation. But, it does mean something altogether different, right, Doc? I’m sorry for ranting on about it, but that has just bugged the shit out of me since you said it. I don’t need you to candy coat things for me. I believe that truth is truth and lies are lies. It’s very simple in my fucking world. It has to be.

Anyway, we were having a discussion about my dad’s birthday. It’s in two weeks. Nobody really wants to attend. Why? Because of his past. He has had the luxury of a very long life, the first half of which he was a stone cold motherfucker. Even those who weren’t even born back then hold a grudge about it. What the actual fuck is up with that? I’ll tell you…It’s Mom. So, she tells me that he hasn’t exactly done anything to endear himself to his grandchildren, great and great-great. I lost my fucking mind when she said that. That motherfucker saved my goddamn life. He was and is my hero and I am not dealing with more of the same. He’s almost dead, for Christ’s sake. Why can’t they just let it fucking go? Bunch of assholes. No fucking respect, no real need for an old man who hasn’t greased their palms. Fuck. Them. All. I don’t need them, either. I’m so fucking tired of the family bullshit.

Nobody was worried about Dad being a piece of shit when they handed me over, were they? Not my mom…my queer as fuck father. Nobody. But they sure have been around for the punishin’. Yep. Fuck that old man…who does he think he is? We’re real Christians. He’s just some Bible thumping ex drunk. Blah…blah…blah…= FUCK EM ALL

Mom took a bit of offense to my statements. I can understand. I sensed that she is a bit afraid of me, for some reason. My grandmother was terrified of me, only that was due to her guilt and nothing of my own doing, I assure you, Doc. I told Mom that I have a right to feel as I do. She agreed, but was still in a lil snit. Later, she messaged me as though nothing was said. That’s the norm. The usual. The dreaded…always is. I will let the subject lie, as I said what I needed to. But I will feel the same way, no matter. I can do that now, with no regret. I dig that.

I know I seem unhinged right now. Perhaps if the shaking would stop and I could get the memory of last night’s dreamfair out of my head. Alas, it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon. I think I’ll have a drink. It’s a beautifully gloomy day and I’m in for the duration.

Till next time, Doc!


Dear Doc,

I think that I finally figured out why my mother gave me away to my grandparents…

My mother discovered that my father was/is gay shortly after giving birth to me. He left town, afraid that he’d be exposed. She had a breakdown, during which she gave me away, for all intents and purposes, to the two people she most despised in this world. I’ve never quite figured that out. I’ve never understood it. Until now. It occurs to me that, after growing up with their abuse, (it was severe), when she looked at me, I reminded her that she had gotten fucked over, yet again, by my father. I reminded her that she was vulneralble. She couldn’t stand to look at me for that reason, so she gave me to the people who made her feel vulneralble her entire life. Then, she had all of us…everyone who made her feel this pain…under one roof. After that, she never had to worry that any one of us could hurt her, or remind her of the heartbreak and pain she associated with her childhood or her first marriage.

I know that sounds like it’s a bit much, but when you consider that she divorced my father, remarried, had a legitimate child, all in the space of nineteen months after my birth, I think it’s right on the money.

The irony of the situation is that I, in turn, reminded my grandmother of my mother so much that she could not stand the sight of me, either. lol! Can you imagine? She just got my mother out of her life and then I bounced into it. Though, the story my mother tells is one of she and my grandmother fighting over me, but I believe that the evidence stands on solid legs. I could never tell my mother what I think. She is caught in what you call a ‘fiction’, which I call a ‘lie’, as there is not such a thing as a fiction when there are available facts. Actually, I think your ‘fiction’ is an abuse of the language and an excuse for liars to fall back on when needed.

That’s all for now. Just wanted to share with ya. I knew I was on the verge of figuring that out…for the last two decades. lol! Time, time, time…see what’s become of me…la la la… 😉

Dear Doc,

It’s late. I can’t sleep. Something is bothering me and I just can’t ignore it. It’s something that happened in a bar yesterday…

I know, I know…I’m always saying that I can’t go to public places because of panic setting in so quickly. But, yesterday, I took a couple of Xanax along with my regular medicine, which I never do. I was stoned out of my mind, and it was a private bar, so there were only a few people there. I didn’t want to go. I let a friend talk me into it and I agreed to a deal with him: One drink, one game of pool, then we leave.

My friend, L., had his drink and was playing pool by the big window at the front of the bar. I sat on a barstool near the back end of the bar, watching the Nature Channel with the manager. I remember looking to my right…then things just changed. My surroundings changed…like someone had flipped a switch.

Before I knew what was happening, I felt transported. I was ten, and it was a hot summer evening. My friend, R. and I were playing dominoes while the adults drank and carried on in the bar we were in. His parents…mine…everyone was drunk or drinking. We were in the back, R. and I, at a table by the door. Suddenly, there was a lil dust up with this old man who lived on a hilltop just down the road a bit. Voices were raised, and he got up and left. I remember laughing about it with R. Some time after the man left, I remember hearing the front doorbell ring. I looked to see who came in. It was the old man. He had a gun. I remember how silent it was in the bar, then it was loud and R. and I flipped the table over and got behind it. Three shots were fired, then it was quiet again.

It seemed like ages before I got the nerve to peek over the table’s edge and see what had gone on. Everyone was just frozen in their seats. Silent. Then, someone laughed. They fucking laughed and everything went back to the way it was. The barkeep approached the old man, who still stood by the door, and took the gun and put a beer in his hand. He led him to a table and sat him down. Nobody was hurt. That was that. R. and I picked up the dominoes and righted the table and continued to play.

I came back to myself after that. I don’t know if it was a flashback or just a strong memory, but I couldn’t wait to leave the bar after it happened. I was shaking and sick and my ears were ringing so loudly that I couldn’t hear the TV. My heart was pounding, I was sweating. God, it was embarrassing. I asked my friend to leave, as I had kept my part of the deal. We did. But he was extremely upset. That’s another story…

I’m wondering if this type of thing is going to happen very often, Doc. Is this a result of your magic nightmare pills? Abilify? Me? What gives? Why do I feel more crazy now than before I met you? Yes. I actually do. So…????

I will give you credit for something that is rather life changing: I am drawing boundaries and keeping them. I am doing so well that I could show Pres. Trump a thing or two about building a wall! lol! Actually, you’ll have to share credit with my friend, S. Both of you have been very encouraging in that regard and I do feel as though I’m worth a lil bit of something now. After the situation at the bar, a friend I was staying with to help him find a way to detox from alcohol showed me some very frightening aspects of his personality. I was told to leave and I left. I actually left. And it felt good. I was packing before I was told, anyway. Not too long ago, I’d have sat there and tried to figure him out, or understand what was ‘wrong’. I couldn’t have left and stayed gone for anything in the world.

I’ve never left a frightening situation before. I solve frightening situations. That’s who I am; it’s what I do. I don’t feel fear when things get to the point where everyone else is jumping ship. But, guess what? I was fucking scared. Fear. I felt fear of a human being for the first time in ages. Real fear, not ‘we’re having a fight and this will stop soon’ fear. It went from head to toe. And I thought to myself that there must be a serious reason why I was feeling that. So, I left. I left and I felt good and safe and like I’d done something in my own defense for the first time that I can remember. I had no need to ‘see it through’. No looking back, no turning around…I went home.

Even on the way home, as the threatening phone calls started, I felt okay. I still feel okay. And I can’t believe I did that…I left. I left him alone. OMG. And I don’t even want to fix things, or go back. He showed his dark side and I believed him. I’ve never believed anyone before because I have a dark side, too. It’s always been bigger than ‘theirs’. It’s not now, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t feel like a lil bitch, or as though someone one-upped me. This is too weird, Doc. Way too weird…

I thought things were over last night, but, in place of the usual ‘Good Morning’ text my friend sends, this morning’s said ‘Fucking You’. I guess he meant ‘Fuck You’, but was probably already too drunk to text. I’ve never seen anything like that before. He reminds me of the drunk in Leaving Las Vegas, or the guy in Less Than Zero. It’s a heartbreaking thing to watch. He’s been trying so hard to hold back and to find help. I hope he’s gotten help now. He had an appointment this morning. Otherwise, he’ll have to wait till next Monday to get into a rehab facility. I feel so bad for him, but I still have no desire to text back or continue any relationship with him, whatsoever.

Well, I’ve rambled on enough. Guess I’ll talk to ya soon, Doc…










































there is more than one way to be lost

For Kevin…I miss you.

is it monday, again?

Dear Doc,

Feeling a lil iffy today, as my brain feels as though it’s drowning and can’t make its way back to the surface. I suppose that IS the nature of drowning, yes?

Doc, sometimes I think my life isn’t worth living. Then, at other times, all I can see is life. I don’t understand how those two mentalities can coexist in my head. It’s like the twin I told you about. She shadows me everywhere I go. If I think something, she checks it…say something, she edits. It really is the strangest feeling, but I’ve had it my whole life. Maybe she’s just some made up play friend from childhood. Except that she knows me better than I know myself. She’s a better version of me. Very kind and considerate. She doesn’t curse or carry on loudly. She’s just a very quiet note that I hear, reminding me that I, too, can be better than I am…that someone is always watching and judging. I wish she was dead.

I spoke with N. today. I’m happy that I called, because my appointment’s tomorrow and I totally forgot. I’m only doing a half session, as I don’t think you had any plans to do any serious therapy, per our agreement. I know you wanted to add another pill, so we’ll see how that goes. Maybe I’ll be ready to talk about some things next month. Or after that. Or never. I don’t know. As I’ve told you, I don’t feel comfortable bringing up certain things, and remembering them out loud is not going to help. Hell, Doc, I can’t even allow myself to think of those things. And, were I to tell you, you’d never understand, or you’d lock me up. I don’t like that. I don’t like that someone could have me put away. I’m not crazy like that. I’m normal. Mostly. You have to know that.

I’m worried about my friend today. He is relapsing and I don’t know how to help him. Alcoholism is a terrible thing. I’ve sat with a man who died from liver and kidney failure. That was when I was a little girl. I was the only one who’d sit with him. And, he never stopped drinking till the moment he passed. I have his jug, to this day. A little brown ceramic jug. His name was Tex. I thought he was the cat’s pants because he was named after Texas. I miss him to this day. I hope his grandchildren, who are my age, have passed on the good things about him. I’d hate for such a character to die off to his family. We are all more than what we imagine, I think. For instance, my nieces and nephews think I was once married to Black Beard. But I ended up stealing his treasure and running away to Galveston with Jean LaFitte. lol! Of course, now that they’re grown, they know those old stories aren’t true, but they still tell em as though they are. I love that. My legend will live on. And, for that, I’m grateful.

I’m going to head out, Doc. I need to run to town in a bit. Lots to do, really. But, we’ll talk manana!

Adios, Doc!

morning rant brought to you by the makers of abilify

Dear Doc,

The brightness of the new day slams into my brain in stark contrast to the shadows and dreams that filled the hours before sunup. The day would like for me to believe that it harbors no ill will, as does the night. I don’t believe it. Not for a second. Those shadows, visible in the darker hours, only become more creative by light of day. How dare the sun stand in judgement of the beauty of night, which shows itself, even when the shadows’ dance torments my tired mind.

Yes, it’s true, I do have a flare for the dramatic. No less true is the fact that I can feel this medicine hitting my brain. It is strange to feel an organ, as most lie within you, quietly, like good boys and girls. You can imagine how strange it is, Doc, when you FEEL a particular organ. Sure, I do pay attention to my liver when it’s had its fill of the garbage I pour into my body. But, to feel one’s brain is another animal, entirely. You feel as though you’re being lifted into the air, somehow. That’s how I feel, at least. It’s like a tiny man is in there, flipping on this switch and that one; turning off others.

I’d give anything for a say in what the tiny man turns off or on. I’d so like to speak with him, if only I could. I’d say, “Tiny Man, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, but please be a dear and leave my sex drive in tact, will you? I thank you ever so much!” However, I doubt that he’d be compliant. Perhaps, should I meet Tiny Man, I’d just squash him with my heel and be done with it. Better yet, I’d eat him, consuming him like a lioness. Either would be too good for him, I’ll tell you that much.

I have quite a bit to accomplish today, and I’m fully committed to the tasks at hand. I’d rather hop in Maxxine and go for a fast drive, but I’ve been running a bit on the slow side, recently. It seems as though these meds make me feel a bit unsure behind the wheel. I haven’t seen 100mph in at least a week, now. I hate that. I’ve no bravado. No…spice. I’m as bland as milk and dry toast. For all intents and purposes, I am dead. Yes. That is correct: Dead. Thank you so much for prescribing me death in a bottle, Doc.

I find it interesting that modern society finds it more acceptable for us ‘crazies’ to be medicated into submission than to simply allow us to be the nuts and crackers that we are. Yes, some of us are dangerous, but most of us are not. We live in a society that is accepting of grown men ‘identifying’ as six year old girls, yet we must make the crazy people sit down and shut the Hell up. Is this really happening? Am I required to call a woman Sir because she identifies as a man, yet no one is required to accommodate my idiosyncrasies in any way? Tolerance. This society can shove that word squarely up its collective ass. While the madness of the LGBTQXYZ is cradled in the arms of Americans as though it were a baby in swaddling clothes, I’m expected to slowly poison myself in order to tolerate and be tolerated.

America, enjoy your cup of hypocrisy this morning. Choke on it, if you must. Just be certain you drink it all down.

love removal machine…la la la…

Dear Doc,

I’m useless today. I fell asleep in the chair, again. I don’t feel as bad as I normally do when I sleep without my cpap, though. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if I started out asleep in the chair, or ended up there, as I was sitting up in the chair when I woke up this morning. And, no, I have no recollection of what I did after ten last night, aside from talking to my friend on Messenger. I’m pretty sure it was last night.

The Abilify is giving me these prickly bumps on my arms and inner thighs, and on parts of my lower legs. They aren’t noticeable to the eye, but they are very noticeable to the thtouch. Just what a single woman wants! Go me! I have weird bumps! Silver lining: I’m not on lithium.

Love has been on my mind lately. A lot. I’d assumed that it was a given that I’d never be in love, or be loved, again. I think that was due to the grief I felt where Bennie was/is concerned. The meds seem to have quieted that, to a significant degree. I still miss him and I still love him, but I don’t allow his memory to consume me any longer. I’ve also gotten beyond the euphoric memory stage. When I remember him now, I remember him as he truly was, not in some idealized way. I’m still so angry about the Jenny situation that I cannot see straight. I look at his picture on the wall and I realize that I haven’t known who the Hell he is in years. She’s right; she knew more about him and our marriage than I did. I’d still like to choke her silly ass. What a fucking bitch. How do you tell a grieving wife that you, in the course of fucking her husband behind her back, knew him better than she did? I hate her. I honestly do. However, he was the one who was married. The blame lies with him, no matter how much I despise that trifling cunt.

Wow! See? Another rant, Doc. I just keep on yammering away and I don’t know why. One thing leads into the next and the next. No focus. As far as love goes, I don’t know if I am ever going to be ready to pay the price for it, again. When you’re IN love, its worth to you is incalculable. When it’s over, you know exactly how much it cost you. That’s the part I cannot handle. Death took Bennie. I can accept that. But, were I to find love again, and he stopped loving me…I can’t deal with that. Not ever again. I recall, clearly, when Bennie stopped loving me. I thought I’d die…that my world would implode. I have never known pain like that, before or since. I have no intention of knowing such pain ever again. I suppose I just answered my own question regarding whether, or not, I’ll be in love again…

As an alternative to love, I’ve been considering taking on a slave. There are a couple of candidates who have contacted me and I can’t say that I’m not tempted. It would be nice to have someone to care for…to fuss over. The upside is that I could never love a slave in the way a woman loves her man. Not in a million years. Seriously. The downside is that both candidates are twenty years my junior and I’m very uncomfy with that. I don’t ever want to be the one who caused someone else to miss out on a life they might have had, or who causes them to look back, at my age, thinking they wasted everything on someone like me. I do think that men that age will, ultimately, want a wife and children. I would hate for them to waste time for the sake of a life of chastity and servitude to someone who won’t love them as they should be loved. I’d also planned to leave that all behind me. But, it’s what I know and you know what they say, Doc, ‘The Devil you know is better than the Angel you don’t…’

I was thinking of Mom’s offer to rent an apartment for me, down on the coast. I miss her so much, but I don’t think I could live there again. The noise and the people…it’s too much. After a short time visiting, I have to leave because I can’t take it anymore. I guess I still feel a bit lost here in Mayberry, even though I consider this my home now. It really is lovely, with the trees and such. Nature. The night is intoxicating here, with the sheer opacity of the darkness. Without the moon, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. And, it feels as though something is always watching you, in the nighttime…some little creature, peering through your windows, waiting and wondering just what you are doing here. There are other times when it feels as though something much greater is doing the observation. Those can be frightening times. Were it not for a gun to protect me, I’d lose my mind on nights like that. There is just so much life here that it takes your breath away. While I do miss my pelicans, I think my place is here with the crows and the mysterious things.

I should go, Doc. I have things to do that I’ve put off all day. It’s my son’s birthday. I’m so happy he’s here with me. I do have much to be thankful for when I think about it. Some days, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world. I think today is one of those days.

do the rambles ever cease? (no. the answer is ‘no’.)

Dear Doc,

I hope your weekend is going well. Mine is typical: Wake up, take meds, pass time, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. I’m alone now. The kids went to Jay’s band practice. They have a few gigs lined up in the near future. I’m happy for them. I hope it all works out and they can gig regularly in the area. Who knows? I think they’re talented enough. Next, the right people need to see them. That’s all the music business is; a series of fortunate encounters with the right people. If anyone can swing that one, it’s Jay. He’s the luckiest person I know.

The sun doesn’t want to set this evening. Its light is white, even as night draws near. I don’t particularly care for the sun. It seems quite greedy to me. That’s why the night has to fall in the way that it does…it simply cannot fight the sun when it comes to sharing the stage, as it were. I’m certain that the night has grown, long since, weary of the whole endeavor. I think we’re fortunate to see night come ’round at all these days. We should be more grateful of the night and the refuge it offers. Especially those of us who have so much that needs to remain in shadows, deep, lest we be forced to confront the Uglies and whatsuch.

Pray tell, good Doc, do you see that I’m getting any better? I’m not so sure of that, myself. I feel as though the weight of the world is hanging over me. Yes, I know…poor, poor, me…sigh…Nonetheless, I do imagine that, if things don’t change, I will have to put an end to this mess of a life. It’s terribly drawn out, it seems. Nothing I do is able to change that. No, I am not saying exactly what you might think. I am saying that, when time comes, time comes. I hope you can understand.

I suppose I’ll go work on the house a bit. It’s looking absolutely charming! It reminds me of one of those country cabins you see in magazines. I’m fortunate to have had so much to work with, aside from money, since I’m on a choker of a budget.

When I read back to myself what I’ve written to you, I often feel a sense of shame, Doc. I come off as vain and narcissistic. Nothing could be further from the truth, where I’m concerned. If I’ve ever felt worthy, in the slightest, it was on my daddy’s lap as he let me inspect his beard in my ceaseless effort to understand where it sprang from. Nothing else in life has really matched that bit of egoiste.

I’ll also admit that, when I allude to doing myself in, I am also, then, ashamed, as I find it the highest form of arrogance. I’m aware that I did not give life to myself. Life is God given and should be sacred. Life is to be savored and enjoyed, even when you find life to be a tribulation, because not one second is lived in vain, and gratitude is in good order for that very reason. However, at times, I find that I am in such rebellion to my God and to life, itself, that I cannot imagine living another day. During those times, I feel that my existence is a testament to failure on God’s part, even though I know it is not. God doesn’t make mistakes. That is true as true can be. I suppose that it is mine to discover what manner of strange I am and to set about pursuing my life with a better outlook and with more gusto, in spite of what my mind tells me.

I don’t intend to seem disingenuous, Doc. I’ve known many who have ‘faked it till they made it’, so to speak. Perhaps that would be a wise pursuit for me. After all, I’ve been faking my whole life. Acting, I guess. Flawlessly. Until that thing happened; the thing of which I am loath to speak. It was the culmination of many things, as you know. I erupted, much as a volcano, and with as much force. I think my family was surprised that I had that in me, to be frank. Whatever the case may be, my life did change that very day and has not been the same, for even a moment, since.

Well, dear Doc…I’ve rambled on about myself long enough. Your pills allow me access to something in my head that feels like a ‘higher’ brain. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but I can feel the top of my actual brain after I take my medicine. It feels as though it works its way up, until, later in the day, it reaches the tippy top. Then, I feel magical. I feel beautiful. I feel. Normally, it doesn’t occur until bed. Usually, I’m numbed by the drugs I take. But there are days, Doc…Oh, there are days…