If you don’t know me, I’m boring you, but if you don’t know me, I don’t think you’re reading this blog.
I went to the psychiatrist today. (A psychiatrist is a MD who prescribes medication.) She was shocked and horrified by my Inderal overdose. “We would both be in trouble,” she said, and spent the rest of our appointment reeling. This was serious stuff. “It just wasn’t your time,” she said. I had done a very dangerous thing. I have mostly stayed cool about this stuff, but, to be honest, hearing from the doctor herself that it might have been the real end is oddly thrilling. It’s like setting things up for a suicide attempt, some thing I’ve only almost one once. It’s titillating. There is so much grief and pain that comes before an attempt. I didn’t have those feelings about taking all those pills. It’s only now, in retrospect, almost a week later, that I’m really allowing myself to have any feelings about it. I regret to say it’s kind of exciting. I wish it was just that I felt relieved. I don’t, not yet. Maybe when I get my mind wrapped around it I’ll have another experience.
My husband says that I didn’t die, or get very sick, so there is nothing to say or do about it. I could make myself think about this, or even believe it, but I don’t have that kind of maturity. Not yet.