Recently, I got a new nurse practitioner for my psych meds.  She seems nice enough: mid-fifties, doesn’t seem burned out, doesn’t feel it necessary to speak  to me as though I were a dim-witted 10 year-old, so I like her just fine. Julie has some experience with OCD sufferers according to her blurb on Google, and she seized on the fact that I was still sub par. Always anxious and paranoid of everyone in my neighborhood,  I’m just a regular Ms. Congeniality. She wanted to try me on Risperdal or Zyprexa, and decided on the former.

when I finally had the courage (and my $3.00 Medicaid co-pay) to try it, I looked upon the tiny brick-red pills with a mixture of trepidation and  psycho hope. This could be my missing link to making life worth living! Maybe I can be normal now or fake it. Maybe I can stop hating myself  and having  ideation pop into my head.

The risperdal has helped some. I feel less terrified around my neighbors.  I think a medication would have to put me in a coma, however, to stop me from checking  the front door for an angry missive or an eviction notice twice a day. I still feel like I could lose everyone and everything I love in an instant. Everyone I love dead in a pile like Hamlet.

Sometimes my depression just  slaps me when I least expect it. Sometimes I regurgitate everything in my head. I hate being a  sub-standard person. I sometimes feel like festering trash of the

red pills in person s hand
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

caucasian variety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

, and se

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