A Trip to the Psychiatrist

I went to the psychiatrist, and it was a bit like confessing to a priest; everything spilled out. The agitation, the sense of walking through a weird, pervasive fog. The subject of sleep arose, and I admitted that I sometimes will pop an Amazon "sleep aid" -- and send it "down the hatch" -- around 3:30 am.

The doctor gave me a mild, pitying look, and said, "I'd stop that. 3:30 am is not advisable." (There was subtext--use your brain, you moron--but we just moved on.)

I have a baseline of anxiety--with a little sprinkling of depression on top. The anxiety is like the vamp at the start of the musical Chicago, and the depression is Bebe Neuwirth's short, flashy solo. That's how I think of this. Lexapro can silence the Bebe Neuwirth solo--even if it can't silence "the vamp."

My husband is all for this, and he sends encouraging text messages. "You will always be my Lexa-PRO!"

To be continued.

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