After pulling my crazy self into the doctor I have now been instructed to try a new cocktail of meds.
I’m a fan of meds.
But more the morphine, hallucinogenic, seeing unicorns and Jack Tripper kind.
Not the “you’re crazy” kind.
Also? The bottles are hard to open.
Some days I feel like I could barf up the ball of anxiety that sits in my throat.
Since depression and anxiety, two of the sneakiest bastards since PPD, have jumped out from my closet and wrapped their claws around my neck, I am back doing the medication mambo.
I have been referred for more intakes, psychiatrists, and doctors. Which in turn will mean more questions, prescriptions, and diagnosis.
I do not want to say out loud that there are days when I feel like I am going off the deep end.
Saying it out loud means it’s true.
Explaining it makes me look even crazier.
This makes me anxious.
And that makes me realize that maybe I do need to live in a pleasant state of prescribed happiness.