Says Anne Sexton, and say I, as I continue the mind-bending process of coming off Effexor. Indeed, I am so f’d up, that my gay boyfriend, who I met and married in the psych ward, who says I am beyond flaky and is looking for new blood, had to stop me from writing “of Effexor”. It’s time to “cruise dinner”. For me, this means stealing as many “desserts” as possible as it is the only thing that resembles actual “food” on the tray one is presented with at 8:00 sharp, 12:00, and 6:00 sharp.
I cannot upload media from this ward in the hospital, so I haven’t been able to post much, as media would be much favourable to my verbal diatribes that have to be spun from from my own head. I sleep away as much of the days as possible, with the promise in mind, “you’ll get better! You just got here!”
I appreciate all of your support immensely, more than immensely, super-immensely (I’m out of it and that sounded Japanese) and ask the occaisional spammer – “why do you read my writing if you hate me, it, and anything to do with it, so very much?”