I have a panic/anxiety disorder with attendant depression. (That I have to pretend is depression with an attendant anxiety disorder so that I can get my meds, but drug distribution in the US is jacked up, news at eleven.) Due to a massive snafu, my primary care physician went out of business without, uh, notifying any of his patients. My insurance is working on fixing the problem and getting me into a doctor as soon as possible, but it could take a week and a half or more.
Up to two weeks in which I am flailing through the wild with only my jacked-up neurotransmitters to keep me company.
Wow. This is going to be fun. (Please note sarcasm. Also, if you could give me some leeway on Twitter if I have a sudden CAPSLOCK RAGE explosion for the next few weeks, that would be sweet.) Naturally, one well-meaning and unfortunately clueless person has already told me, "But this will help you in your writing!"
What is it about writers and mental illness, or writers and substance abuse? It's not like peanut butter and jelly, but more like pizza and sprouts: tasty for about ten minutes, but you're going to regret it something awful later. When did this romantic delusion come about? I have a feeling that I need to go back in time and kick Lord Byron's ass.
On the other hand, I did get about five thousands words of Fire with Fire edited today, so let's give a cheer for manic phases.
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