Three-year low:

I had to give the disposable razors to my mother today. I didn’t ever want to be back in this place, but here I am. It’s up to me, yet again, to determine the alchemy that is mind + drugs.

I wish to hell I had never let the doctor give me the damn pills in the first place. Sleep study first, maybe one of those lamps, but really? Pills? Goddamnit, I was sane. I was happier than I am now, and if I wasn’t completely joyous in a bouncing-off-the-walls sense, at least I was sane. I slept. I didn’t last night, no more than five hours because I just couldn’t get my brain to shut off without that extra half-milligram of Ativan–and can I just say? It was nice getting by on just the one milligram nightly. Screw this two and I’m anxious all next day business.

Time to pop the Celexa up 2.5 mg. I am a boss at this pill-splitting business. I haven’t reached the level of expertise as some Effexor users, who titrate down by individual pinheads’ worth of drug, and may I never learn what that’s like. One-eighth of a pill should be easy.


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