Almost every doctor I went to see seemed to just go ahead and assume I was crazy before I even sat down, probably because I wrote or circled things on my forms like "Celexa, 40 mg daily," "Buspar, 30 mg daily" and "history of substance abuse."
I found myself in the embrace of a near-stranger who was overwhelmed with joy just because inconsequential, strange, and silly little me had lived to see another day. I surrendered to her startling affection and took part in the impromptu celebration of my own beating heart.
I've been a horror-movie junkie since I was a kid. As an adult, I graduated to trashy true-crime books and TV (plus an inexhaustible passion for "Law & Order: SVU"). It's slightly embarrassing, but I'm not alone in this -- am I? Let's discuss.
It was one early morning in February when I decided I needed to get out. I needed to prove to myself I could have an adventure, some sort of quest that would make me realize I could have some sort of meaningful experience unaided by anyone else.
Then lunch time will come, but you won't feel like eating. You will instead feel like turning off all the lights and burying your face in a pillow for an hour, not for a real nap, but just to turn everything off.