I saw my shrink last week. He asked how I was sleeping, and I said fine, now that I've started drinking wine. He then asked how my weight was doing, and I said fine, now that I've started smoking again.
So, he upped my meds.
That's the answer to everything: more anti-depressants. Oh well, I'll take them dutifully and start to get a bit numbed out to the world...it's fucking better than being all anxiety ridden and thinking the world is just too damn big.
I feel fine, truly, and haven't had the Mondays quite so badly, well, not really at all I guess -- so THAT's good. But he warned that it might take longer to reach orgasm. SHIT. Already takes forever. TMI? I don't care.
See, the meds help me say, "Fuck it."
But what I don't understand is, my home life is awesome and I'm not really stressed out at work, except for the financial books and the damn yearbook, so why do I still puke occasionally in the mornings and why can't I sleep sometimes, and why does my brain do flip-flops on itself?
Oh well. Fuck it.
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