Dining with a By Andrea Lambert Cursed Bloodline came out this month. A jolt of euphoria!  Complete with anxiety. Panic. Should I continue I’m Dead? Take a break? Change schedule to weekly?

All or nothing. Concerns about saturating my market. I can only handle so much excitement.  I decided to keep going. I enjoy writing these. A shorter form. Open subject matter. Read it or don’t. It’s your choice.

Holla at my eleven subscribers! I have entered the stage of midlife where I know my  slang is ancient, but so am I.

Today I got all dressed and put together to kill time until my psychiatrist appointment. The fun part of a brain wipe trauma is completely forgetting what clothes I even own. So digging the low heels out from the bottom of the giant box of random shoes? Thrilling.

I wear clothes until they wear out. Weight fluctuations are the norm. Complicating things. The psychological effect of getting dressed is getting easier.  I’m having fun with it, which I haven’t been able to do in a very long time. Not physically strong enough to blow dry my own hair. Forgot how much fun makeup was.

I’m snowed in. COVID agoraphobic. I must invent my own fun. Things to feel good about are precious. Fun was not part of my life for years.

It makes me feel like I’m coming back to who I was. Getting my life back. Which is the project for 2023. 

Things have been so extreme. Off the rails. It feels like the 6th season of some TV show which must constantly escalate. That’s the point I am with watching True Blood. The point I always used to stop at. Too intense? I like intense things to digest. The sympathetic paranormal. The South looks like an absolute nightmare. I would never survive.

Pacing and escalation are great for a media product. This is my life, however. Unless I am in some reality TV show I don’t know about. The classic Truman Show delusion. Which is now quite possible with the tech that lives here. Home as the set. That’s more a fantasy. Not to have to do that amount of video editing and storage. Just be. A one woman show of what the fuck.

My doctor upped my anti anxiety meds. The pharmacy is are actually cooperating. I only had to go through countless withdrawals. Hex the place on Yelp. Miss a planned AWP trip. Write essays about the issue. YouTube me reading them. Do some other spells. Be racially harassed by Twitter accounts using the official CVS logo. Come back from a withdrawal coma. Buy some of their stock. Vote in the stockholders meetings.

I am fucking serious. I am waiting for that one controlled substance prescription to be filled right now. It’s only been six years of this in Reno. Same psychiatrist. Same pharmacy. Same nightmare. Fuck your fucking opioid crisis, okay? I was prescribed Klonopin when I was first diagnosed. Mid nineteen nineties. There’s no going back for me.

Schizoaffective Disorder is a rare mental illness for which lifetime benzodiazepines are required. That’s medication only. The line between life and death. Someone in CVS corporate told me my file said drug seeking. Excuse me?

Hon, when I did drugs they were the old fashioned kind. Cocaine. Speed. Ecstasy. LSD. Magic Mushrooms. Some ungodly amount of alcohol. Jet Set Desolate and Neon Hysteric covered that. I haven’t touched any of that in a decade.

I’m so glad.

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