See if it can swim
Posted on May 28th, 2014
My shrink is faculty at the university “up the hill,” a local colloquialism. pH refers to him as “the nice doctor,” which is true. He’s the nicest and most personable of my doctors. (I suspect that as neurotic as I think I am, since he’s at the teaching hospital that serves the non/underinsured population, I’m probably pretty dull.)
There’s a lot of baggage that goes along a Xanax prescription. For one, I’m not alone in being XX, redheaded, petite, and rocking an anxiety/panic disorder in my natal family. In fact, that’s every female on one side of the family. And they are or were all on Xanax (klonopin I could rationalize away). If you add in all BZDs, we’ve been taking them since they were first on the market in, um, 1960. (I’d like to think I got a pass on the narcissistic personality disorder, too, but heck, look at me, blogging all these years, not to mention 18ish years of having a vanity domain. I would think I’d be the one without it, either way.)
So! I’m generation 3 (with at least three other third generation women). Generations 1 and 2 did a bang-up job of getting addicted to various BZDs and…so did my cousins.
So this stuff? It scares me. Terrifies me. It’s OMG-I’m-turning-int0-my-Mother. And grandmother. And aunts. And cousins.
The nice doctor took that into account; I’m on the extended release kind, the kind that is meant to make sure I don’t wake up with the elephant on my chest. It’s not as addictive as the short term kind, the original kind, the kind the rest of the women in the family take. (I have a few of those, for emergencies, but hopefully this will do the trick.)
So far, so good. No elephants. I woke up on time (although good luck staying asleep with your phone playing this full blast), but I had to do pushups and crunches and drink a cup of coffee to get moving. I’d blame Vitamin X, but actually, it was SimCity until midnight that’s to blame.