Maybe just as well. This new PCP is said to specialize in internal medicine as well as anxiety, depression, and all that. My previous pcp espoused Eastern methodologies, including the tapping method, which had me making quacking noises in my head as he sat in the office demonstrating how “depression hangs out here, tap harder,” and “anxiety hangs out here., tap longer on that spot…”
I will grant him one thing, though. When he applied the acupressure ear pins… that shit really worked the one time I gave it a chance.
My meds are running low. I let that happen by not taking them very often. That’s an observation I made long about buying in bulk. You forget you bought 2,000 rolls of Charmin so you get complacent that there will always be a supply. There will always be more.
Two years into said complacency your Charmin supply has a rude, brusque announcement: It’s time for that emergency supply of sandpaper TP you stole from the office 8 years ago.
Thus is the scenario I now face, with the meds. Only difference is: no backup. No way I know of te get a refill save for professional prescription. If not that then Dark Web, but I know my not around those climes. I looked around the Dark Web enough to conclude there was nothing there for me. I don’t do drugs or hookers or crypto. THere are some genuine blogs and message boards and such but the mystery of those scenes evaporates when you learn they are almost all echoed on the clear web.
Blahblahblah. Today I spend naigating the consequences of taking a half day off for anxiety. I never mentioned this condition upon employment since I thought it would bias them against me. I think ultimately it will but for now I’ll probably just be told to take a deep breath.
I called NYC WELL yesterday, for the first time. I am responsible for getting the NYC WELL crisis counseling phone installed on the RFK/Triborough. SO in fact this was not really my first call. I called from the RFK phone one time, day after it was installed, just to see how it sounded. It sounded awful. But it was there. Triumph of my days.
Yesterday’s call from a SI Ferry Terminal payphone also sounded awful, but she was at least audible. I talked straight for 15-20 minutes. She barely said a word. My narrative, which I’ve told to myself repeatedly these past years, starts with the last time I tried to hang myself and ends with me rediscovering the sensations of being alive. The movement of internal organs with every breath. The full-body joy of onloading a 12-inch turd. The child-like discovery of mastrubation.
With that last bit she interrupted me, referred me to a bunch of completely irrelevant medical professionals, and called it quits.
I was referred to an HIV specialist, to someone who deals with dementia, and another specialist I can’t rememebr what they do.
