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Choose Life

My psychiatrist “terminated” me. I took this quite personally, although I’ve been directed not to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s another in a long line of rejections. I had woken up that morning and realized my Abilify, a supplement to the antidepressant Lexapro, was out of refills. I hadn’t seen her in a month because I’d rescheduled to see my niece, who was in crisis-mode (ironical, I’m now in the same mode).

50 bucks a month is that Abilify, which I can’t afford because I’m also in financial crisis mode because I bought one too many candles in my life. I sat on my bed with the empty bottle and cried after having hung up on the Terminator. I hope she feels bad, I thought immaturely. I hope she fucking feels bad, because I do. I threw the bottle across the room toward the trash can, which it missed. I would stop taking them, then, I thought. I would get back my sex-drive, my body, my memory, my concentration. I’d just lose a little sanity.

I haven’t even gotten to that point yet. I’m lying in my sweaty sheets like Renton from Trainspotting, losing time in a slow-motion strobe when I turn my head and tripping and stumbling when I decide to get up. The freight train across the street roars by and I cover my ears and turn back to where I started (bed).

“Eat turkey” my boyfriend, whom I don’t think understands the gravity of the situation, tells me. “You’ll feel better.” Admittedly, I haven’t eaten any turkey, so I can’t confirm nor deny this statement, but would you tell a GD heroin addict without a hit to eat turkey? I laughed imagining that. What else to do but laugh.