The first time I saw the psychiatrist, I was just so relieved and desperate and sad that I couldn’t hide what a mess I was. She was very kind, and I felt like it was ok that I walked into her office and basically fell apart … even though I wanted to kill her receptionist.
So when I went back for a follow-up … it’s weird that I was just like, “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Give me a refill.”
I’m not fine. Everything isn’t fine. I guess I just didn’t have the energy to talk about it. It was easier to pretend. Which is why I told her that the sleeping pill she gave me knocked me out too much but that I could sleep without it.
Which is a big fucking lie.
Which is why I was up at 2 this morning, eating oatmeal, drinking NyQuil and watching Rock of Love Charm School.
I should totally have my own reality show. Obviously.
Anyway. I don’t know if it’s the added anxiety and loss surrounding the Geriatric Poodle or what. But short of the prescription or at least an Advil PM, I am wired. I need help sleeping. I just need help.
And Foxie Doxie needs his mama. He is attached to my hip, and won’t even let me go to the bathroom without him. I want to fix his broken heart, to calm his fears.
So, we’re just doing what we can. He’s asleep with his head buried in my armpit. My mom called and she is going to pick up the Geriatric Poodle’s ashes tomorrow. She promises to take good care of him until I go home for Christmas.
Foxie and I? We depend on the people who love us. And tomorrow will be a little better. We have faith.