fills me with is something I can hardly thank it enough for.
As I write this, I am almost drifting off to sleep. So much so that I can barely bring myself to remember where to place my hands on this keyboard.
It’s nice.
What isn’t nice is how useless my psychiatrist is.
In our last appointment, he had me list off the supplements I’ve been messing with in hopes of getting me out of bed for more than an average of four hours.
His response? ‘That sounds expensive.’
Not ‘Well, let me explain what Haloperidol does, so that you can make more expedient progress!’ Not ‘These ones: ___ & ___ might aid you!’ Not ‘These ones: ___ & ___ won’t do anything!’
What is the role of a psychiatrist anyway? Give you drugs that take you out of commission into perpetuity—seems to be it, in my experience.
But right now, I’m relaxed, and I’m hoping this relaxation will make laying in bed for hours upon hours more bearable.
When I’m gone, I ask that everyone remember me as ‘The Complainer’.
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