(no subject)
My new psychiatrist has the hopeful smile of a fresh-from-college frat boy. He's discontnuing my current pharmeceutical regimen.
"Oh, we've learned our lessons!" He says."No more controlled substances for you!"
He then went on to disparage my previous psychiatrist who put me on this cock-carousel of constrolled medications with the greatest of reluctance. My previous psychiatrist may have looked like a perpetually disappointed Mr Rogers; the one person that let him down in his neighborhood. He was a struggle to get a handle on, but ultimately I respected him. We talked often about the severity of my anxiety, and he understood the cessity of putting me on substances that would potentially put me in a state of complete dependence. After forty-three different types of drugs, it seemed the only thing left was to rely on them. And, as I said, he did so with the greatest of reluctance.
I didn't want to trade depression, fear, and anxiety for a momentary high and a monkey on my back, so I took them with the greatest of reluctance. Honestly, i was supposed to take them twice a dayto lower my ambient anxiety levels so that I could return to the light of civilization. I also had a small amount of fast-acting Xanax for when the panic was too much. I took them once a day, and I resolved myself to "tough out" all but the worst anxiety attacks. I mean, who wants to be addicted?
But my new psychiatrist wants me on a whole new pharmacological regimen. He's got NEW ideas, with NEW drugs, and he can't WAIT to work his alchemical mastery on me. I'll let him have his way with my brain. Fuck it, it's caused me no end to problems, might as well.
But I've got a somewhat impressive respository of xanax, opiods, and other things that will quite happily blast my brain free of its moorings and shuffle me loose my mortal coil. I had a panic attack tonight, and as I awoke in the dregs of fear from a nightmare I couldn't remember, I realized that I have reached terminal stop. I don't have anything or anyone worth living for. Hope is something that other people have. Hope is for the True Believers, the Movers and Shakers of civilization.
For me, "Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment." It's not just a catchphrase, it's a warning. To Hope is to Be Disappointed.
I have zero faith that Mr. College Degree is going to be able to help me.
I have full faith that my grand exodus on grand, pillowy clouds of phrmacological mishaps will free me from my pain. (Really the plan is to get mind-blastingly fucked up on as many drugs as I can cram into me, and then put the gun to my head and putt the trigger. If I'm going to go out, I might as well go out high. Sobriety hasn't done me any favors.)
I love my family.
I love my friends.
But grief is a transitory thing.
In a couple years they won't remember my face.
A couple of years after that they won't rememeber my name, and this stupid fucking story can finally end.
"Oh, we've learned our lessons!" He says."No more controlled substances for you!"
He then went on to disparage my previous psychiatrist who put me on this cock-carousel of constrolled medications with the greatest of reluctance. My previous psychiatrist may have looked like a perpetually disappointed Mr Rogers; the one person that let him down in his neighborhood. He was a struggle to get a handle on, but ultimately I respected him. We talked often about the severity of my anxiety, and he understood the cessity of putting me on substances that would potentially put me in a state of complete dependence. After forty-three different types of drugs, it seemed the only thing left was to rely on them. And, as I said, he did so with the greatest of reluctance.
I didn't want to trade depression, fear, and anxiety for a momentary high and a monkey on my back, so I took them with the greatest of reluctance. Honestly, i was supposed to take them twice a dayto lower my ambient anxiety levels so that I could return to the light of civilization. I also had a small amount of fast-acting Xanax for when the panic was too much. I took them once a day, and I resolved myself to "tough out" all but the worst anxiety attacks. I mean, who wants to be addicted?
But my new psychiatrist wants me on a whole new pharmacological regimen. He's got NEW ideas, with NEW drugs, and he can't WAIT to work his alchemical mastery on me. I'll let him have his way with my brain. Fuck it, it's caused me no end to problems, might as well.
But I've got a somewhat impressive respository of xanax, opiods, and other things that will quite happily blast my brain free of its moorings and shuffle me loose my mortal coil. I had a panic attack tonight, and as I awoke in the dregs of fear from a nightmare I couldn't remember, I realized that I have reached terminal stop. I don't have anything or anyone worth living for. Hope is something that other people have. Hope is for the True Believers, the Movers and Shakers of civilization.
For me, "Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment." It's not just a catchphrase, it's a warning. To Hope is to Be Disappointed.
I have zero faith that Mr. College Degree is going to be able to help me.
I have full faith that my grand exodus on grand, pillowy clouds of phrmacological mishaps will free me from my pain. (Really the plan is to get mind-blastingly fucked up on as many drugs as I can cram into me, and then put the gun to my head and putt the trigger. If I'm going to go out, I might as well go out high. Sobriety hasn't done me any favors.)
I love my family.
I love my friends.
But grief is a transitory thing.
In a couple years they won't remember my face.
A couple of years after that they won't rememeber my name, and this stupid fucking story can finally end.