Today, my therapist’s office called to remind me of my first ever therapy appointment, scheduled for Monday morning.
I have previously cried to three different General Practitioners, as I recollected the trials with my anxiety disorder. Monday’s appointment is different–a real therapist is involved. And, as if the original script wasn’t bad enough, depression added its demeanor into my repertoire.
I made the appointment two weeks ago and it’s been four months since I withdrew from my last, prescribed, anxiety meds. I started with Celexa first. A year later, I switched to Paxil, when the frequency of my attacks began increasing out of nowhere. Fours months ago my GP wouldn’t fill my script without an office visit; my insurance had lapsed; and I had only been on my own a few months–for the first time in my life.
There was zero possibility of dishing out $100 for a Dr’s visit, and my GP’s office could have cared less.
Then came the withdrawal.
My attacks appeared with more frequency than ever before. Have you heard of sleep paralysis?–it’s not fun. I was drinking ever night, once again; chasing shots of Crown with multiple glasses of boxed red wine.
Then came the holidays; Thanksgiving-Birthday-Christmas-New Years Eve.
On January 1, 2018 I decided to quit drinking again. I have “relapsed” on three occasions since that day. If it hadn’t been for a few acquaintances with Xanax prescriptions, that felt bad for me(in my unmedicated state), I would still be binge drinking–every night.
I took the last half, of my last pill…
I have exasperated my resources.
Monday can’t come soon enough.