Speaking of alarmed doors, I'm planning a little trip to the 72 hours of rest ward. Because I'm making everyone around me nuts, I'm off my meds because my shrink won't see me til the insurance company starts paying him, and I don't want to kill off my relationship. I completely jumped the shark the other night and just went stone crazy, screaming, throwing shit - and it wasn't even directed at him. That's the think people don't get about PTSD/Anxiety{Panic in the 3-pack: I might be screaming at you that you suck all the goats ass and that I fucking hate you, but I'm not really screaming at YOU. No, I don't hear voices. It's just shit that comes up when I'm off-med and freaked out. Which pretty much describes the last few weeks.
I figure I'll go to the local hospital, tell them I'm nutty like a Christmas fruitcake, and they can get me stabilized on my meds and possibly refer me to a real psychiatrist that TAKES MY INSURANCE. Because it's either that or my boyfriend just doesn't come back. And as much as I sound like a soulless bitch, I would most likely just stop breathing if that happened.
I'm not getting all emo. Just scribbling out a blog so you all know I'm not dead. Yet.
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I've lifted the post moderation, I don't want my readers to have it be a pain in the ass to see their post, and moderation destroys conversation on a subject, I can just delete the dicks, and we can laugh at them before I do.