Tag Archives: migraines

Yeah, It’s Another Post About Poop

You guys. YOU GUYS.

No, wait, I don’t even wanna say it….I’ll jinx it.

Nah, fuck it, I’m enjoying this too much…


You have no idea what this means to me. I’ve been the opposite of very slightly constipated for like 7 months and it sucked super hard and I was taking Imodium almost every day (which is expensive) and I saw a dietician who recommended that I cut out a number of food items temporarily which made me cry in the grocery store at least once because you try removing garlic from your diet. It’s in fucking everything and it’s delicious and also I wasn’t supposed to have gluten or mangoes which is inconvenient on the first count and just plain mean on the second. Mangoes are angel poop. I’d say I’d eat my weight in mangoes, but I don’t weigh very much and I’d go to town on a more-than-a-Laura-sized helping of mangoes.

So, since I’m feeling a little better for the first time in months, it might make sense for me to maintain the dietary restrictions ’cause they might be the cause of this. But also, IBS is somewhat like bipolar in that people usually have episodes and then are fine for a while. I super hope I’m fine for a while. I’m gonna start wearing alarmingly formfitting clothes. Like so tight that my organs will have to shift to accommodate the garments. STOKED.

For those just tuning in, Irritable Bowel Syndrome and bipolar occur together a lot. Same with either of the aforementioned two and migraines. I have all 3. This unfortunate circumstance can be both a good thing and a bad thing. Bad because they’re a lot to handle and can get really uncomfortable, but good ’cause if they’re related, hypothetically, you could get to the root of the problem and maybe deal with 2 or 3 at a time. Right now, I’m double dipping with Depakote which is a mood stabilizer that also prevents migraines. That’s pretty cool. Migraines are frequently debilitating and I’ve sacrificed entire days to my migraines.

Then again, my mood’s been looking up and I haven’t been spending a nonconsecutive 90 minutes on the toilet in the morning. Wondering if that’s coincidental or not. Trying not to care. I’m not typing from my toilet right now (you guys, sometimes I write these posts from my toilet, you probably should’ve just assumed that, though). So, I may be back here tomorrow to tell you that my victory shits were short lived and I’m back to mainlining Imodium again (I don’t actually inject my anti-diarrheals intravenously, that’d be weird), but that’s a problem for Friday Laura.

So, my sisters and brothers in defecation, I hope you’re pooping like a rockstar today. I know I am.



Vanity V. Sanity, Part I

After fending it off for like maybe a year, I finally let my doctor prescribe me Depakote. I’m at that point again where I feel like I have no choice. My mood for the last 6ish days has been extremely unpredictable and varied. I’m ecstatic at 11 a.m., fiercely focused on a writing project at 3 p.m., then depressed and contemplating suicide by 6. (I’m not in any real danger right now, my husband is watching me like a hawk and my roommate has a keen eye for this shit. Oh yeah, and I’m doing my part too, that shouldn’t be discounted. Part of me not trying to kill myself is me trying not to kill myself.)

I got a couple blood draws yesterday to check my liver and thyroid – but especially my liver ’cause Depakote can apparently trash your liver. Because with bipolar it seems – or at least with my bipolar – relief never comes without strings attached. I can have a healthy mind or a healthy liver, but the combination of both is not guaranteed me. Lithium lifers know this one all too well. After I left the walk-in diagnostic center at the hospital, I went to get my prescription filled immediately so I could start the Depakote last night, before I had the chance to scare the shit out of myself by reading too much about it and its side effects on the Internet. Before I had the chance to talk myself out of piling another mood stabilizer on top of my current cocktail ’cause, as of right now, I’m not swapping out the Depakote for any other drug. That’ll probably happen sometime in the near future, but for right now, we’re just adding. I hate that. I really do. The fucking pharmacy was out of Depakote. They told me to come back Friday after noon. I just wanted to pull the damned trigger. I didn’t used to be such a wuss when it came to meds, but Depakote will be the 18th psych med I’ve tried in just under 8 years. I’ve had a few bad reactions, both instantaneous and longterm. I’ve had the side effects of otherwise helpful medication make my life shittier than it needs to be. Sometimes it just seems easier to suffer and to force my loved ones to deal with my contagious suffering than to wander through territory that’s both new and old at the same time.

But the thing that scares me the most is the possibility of contracting the stupids. Depakote is an anti-epileptic. I’ve tried 2 other drugs in this class before and they both made me dumb as a sack of doorknobs. One of them was really uncomfortable to wean off of. I couldn’t find the words I was looking for. I couldn’t concentrate easily or read properly. If this blog goes silent, it might be because I’m doing really well on Depakote and my vocabulary has shrunk to that of a 4 year-old’s.

So I’m being a little hyperbolic here. But I’m apprehensive and I’m scared, Ok? This is why I wanted to just start taking the damned pills yesterday evening so I wouldn’t have time to let this shit marinate. I’m pretty fragile already. I’ve been struggling with a pretty bad depressive episode since the end of May. I don’t feel like I can do very much well, but at least I can read and write better than most people. I dance like a snake handler and I can’t drive a car for shit. I know what I’m bad at and it’s almost everything, but the things I’m actually good at require a certain level of mental acuity that, when compromised PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF. Nobody wants to feel useless, especially those of us who’ve been fighting off feelings of uselessness for 3 and a half months.

Ok. Silver lining: Depakote prevents migraines. I mean, I might still have hair loss and double vision which is just fucking GREAT ’cause my vision is already garbage. I joked to a woman in my husband’s eye doctor’s office yesterday that my right eye is primarily ornamental. It’s barely a joke. THIS. THIS PARAGRAPH RIGHT HERE. This is why I didn’t wanna give myself time to overthink this ’cause I insist upon fixating on the potential negative side effects and ignore the fact that I’m taking this medication to make me better. But I look at the future and see a bald, blind idiot who is nothing else but not dead.

In my calmer moments, I’ve written about quality of life issues regarding medication and treatment and trying to find a workable balance between the necessary goods and the inescapable bads, and I think I did so with deliberation and some degree of restraint. This is not one of those moments. This is a fuck everything I hate my life I’mma put my fist through a wall I know how to do that now moment. I think I should be allowed these occasionally so that when I finally get my hands on those damned pills, I might’ve worked some of the resentment at my lot out of my system. Here’s hoping.

So, maybe some of you who are taking or have taken Depakote will read this and be like, “Laura. Chill, dude. It’s not the nightmare you’re envisioning. It might actually help and you won’t become a drooling, hairless crone devoid of human-like cognitive faculties.” To which I say: I love you, but shut up.

I just need to air out my insecurities.

But seriously, I still love you.

I’m just not at my most rational right now, which, all things considered in this post, should bug me a lot. But I’ve kinda worked myself into a small tantrum. I gave myself stomach knots and I wouldn’t mind a solid cry right now. It’s ok. It’ll pass. I’ll be fine. I got pills for this shit.


Oh Good, More Learning

So, as stated last post, I’m down to one session of therapy a week and it’s been a rough transition. I wanna say it’s been a surprisingly rough transition, but that’s not true because I knew it’d be hard and I just decided to ignore that reality. It’s hard. I hate it.

I had a little meltdown the night before last. I’d cut my hair that day. Which is to say that, deviating from my typical habit, I let a professional cut my hair. Like someone with many years of training and experience and very likely some kind of degree or certification in this shit. It’s short. Like just past my chin. I like it because I have to. I also like it because it’s cute. There was a dive bar on the first floor of the building where I got my hair cut. I asked the receptionist if it was a decent place to grab a drink and she said it was nothing fancy, but it was fine. I don’t know why I felt like having a drink. I mean I probably do know. It was probably because I lopped off like 5 inches of my hair after ~3 years of telling myself I was gonna let it grow out to an unreasonable, mermaid-like length. So I got a drink. I forgot that it was only 4:30ish so the bar was pretty empty except for the sweetest bartender ever and 2 middle-aged regulars. So I started talking to these guys about the mayoral election we’d all voted in earlier that day (my candidate lost). We talked about past mayors, political dynasties, school closings, citywide ethnic segregation, the mismanagement of public funds, the political machine of the good old days, the political machine of today. The word “reluctant” got used a lot. So did “the lesser of two evils”. This is the vocabulary of my hometown. We only get truly pissed off here when so many people get thrown under the bus that the bus can no longer run.

I get a little defensive of my intellect and my opinion when I have to deal with men who are older than I am. These dudes were actually really cool about not treating me like I’m 9. They asked me what I thought about the leadership of a mayor who left office before I was even born. At some point Nazis came up (like they do). One of these dudes was born in Argentina, so that took an interesting turn. I was having a really good time. I kept ordering beers. At one point, the bartender stopped charging me. Or I stopped paying. It’s not really clear. Since I can’t even remember the last time I got legitimately drunk before this, my tolerance, as you can imagine, was/is pretty fucking low. It got dark out, and I remembered I had to run an errand on the way home that required me to carry approx. 15lbs of stuff on the bus…a ream of printer paper, half a gallon of soy milk, baby food so my cat will actually take her meds, contact solution, stuff that drunk people shouldn’t heft on public trans. So I cheerily left the bar and the nice people I’d met (which were in a neighborhood I almost never visit) and got on a bus headed somewhere and hopped off when I spotted a drug store. I had a list with me. I could only find 3 of the things on my list before I gave up because I was walking into shit. I put on my best “sober” face and, in my best “sober” voice, paid for my purchases and went looking for a bus line I actually knew how to navigate, which I found without much difficulty because it was right the fuck there the whole time and I can get myself lost walking around the damned block, so, as one might conclude, it’s even funnier and probably more hazardous when I’m three sheets.

So, I’m certain I’ve mentioned this before, but being drunk while bipolar is often a little different than being drunk without a mental illness. To begin with, when that first wave of booziness hits me, I start to talk loud and fast. I get tons of energy and I want to chat with everyone. I like meeting strangers anyway, so meeting strangers when I’m drunk is even easier. I get temporarily a little hypomanic. That overly spirited sense of wellbeing and invincibility, though, almost always takes a freaky turn like 4 or 5 hours in to my drunkenness. While on the right bus, I started to feel very intensely about EVERYTHING. I texted my sister saying:

Right now I simultaneously feel like the most brilliant thing that ever lived and like I wanna die right this sec.

Which is the kind of thing that sparks alarm in most rational people. It’s also one of the reasons I don’t drive. Me behind the wheel is fine until it’s not. And it can turn into not on a dime, even though I feel very strongly about not driving drunk (don’t drive drunk. I was hit by a drunk driver when I was 5 and it FUCKING SUCKED. Don’t drive drunk). Anyway, my sister, several states away, was pretty concerned for my safety. I don’t know why I wanted to die. I felt high as a kite. I was pretty euphoric. Maybe too euphoric. There was so much going on inside my head that I think I thought, at the time, the only logical culmination to all this out of control effervescence was a big, glorious death. This is the kind of shit that makes total sense to me when I’m not in my right mind. Everything becomes gigantic.

The second part of this nonsense is probably the least flattering. I got my sister on the phone when I got into the house. I started crying and screaming and I absolutely cannot remember what I was upset about. I asked her, later, not to tell me because I think I’d rather not know, and, anyway, if I thought about it hard enough, I could probably just guess. She calmed me down, convinced me to take some Klonopin (see LBD: benzodiazepines) which I’d neglected to do at my scheduled time because I was busy knocking back Dogfish and discussing Nazi war criminals’ flight to South America with strange men. And by now, my pretty haircut was a masterful shitshow because I kept twisting and ruffling it frantically and I cried all of my makeup down to the wrong parts of my face and I was probably waxing wistful about everything I never did or won’t do or never knew I wanted to do until right that second and OH MY GOD my sister is a hero. But eventually I stopped crying and took my meds and got off the phone with my sister and texted my husband to come home.

My husband arrived just in time for part three which is, primarily, me despairing repetitively in barely audible monotone. I can’t remember if I was still drunk, which means I probably kind of was, but my thoughts followed a very logical if utterly unsound sequence. I used a lot of $10 words which is a thing I do when I feel like I have nothing else. And also because words make me feel better. I did that thing I always do where I took stock of my life and denigrated all of it as folly after mishap after plummet. The how-did-I-get-here-I-hate-my-life shit I do is pretty unfair to my husband seeing as he’s one of the biggest parts of my life. I punished myself, as usual (hi, Catholic upbringing!) for not taking pristine care of myself and for having the nerve to share a few drinks and good conversation with some new people (or, as I framed it: being reckless, getting drunk, putting myself in danger and then crying about it when, SURPRISE! I didn’t feel fantastic for having done those things). The point I kept harping on was that I know better (than what? was never clearly defined but it was probably that I know better than to get that drunk, though there was a strong implication that I should know better than to have such loud feelings, shame on me). I do know better, though. I can’t believe I actually got home that night. I can’t believe I didn’t puke. I considered the migraine I developed as I slowly sobered up over the course of the next few hours my just deserts. And then down and then more down and then downer and then at some point Laura passes out.

I was really sick, both in my head and my guts the next morning. I hadn’t slept very well that night and I was tossing so much much between 3:30 and 5:30 that I went to the guest room so I’d stop bothering my husband and I watched a nature documentary, drifting in and out of shallow sleep until the stupid sun came up and once the sun is up, I have a really hard time staying asleep, even if I’m really tired. Which I was. I was tired and headachey and sick to my stomach most of the morning, which was really a drop in the bucket because I was super fucking preoccupied with shame and self-loathing. Quite frankly, I’m not sure what happened or what I did wrong. I know I drank more than I should have, but beyond that, there was nothing that triggered my weird mood shift or my crying or my self-pitying. I know for sure that my self-flagellation was extremely disproportionate to my actions (oh hey, Catholic childhood, you’re still here…). I know that Silver Linings Laura would try to appreciate this shit as a learning experience rather than waste an entire day in my jammies watching cartoons and trying to rehydrate while questioning whether or not I even deserved water.

One of the things I find really frustrating about this situation is that, as far as these things go, I have pretty successfully treated bipolar. I haven’t had a serious episode in at least a year. I’m comfortable (for the most part) with my meds, I was starting to make some really good headway in therapy about non-bipolar shit that anyone would need therapy to deal with (dream-destroying mom, years and years of child abuse, dad dying way too early). Over the past year, I’ve been able to congratulate myself more than a few times for finally seeing the actions I’ve taken to make myself better come to fruition. But I won’t allow myself a single slip up. I’m too rigid for that. It’s definitely worth noting that, had this course of events taken place 2 or 3 years ago, I would’ve done more than just cry and pity myself. I would probably have had a full-blown panic attack and I very likely would have self-harmed. But I don’t think about progress that way. I don’t know why. After all the work I’ve done, I sure as hell should.

So, today, I feel fine. Good, even. I had a nice conversation with my sister about what to name her new kitten. I managed to erase my sleep deficit. I’m going grocery shopping later (not a huge deal, but at least it’s productive). And I have every intention of doing many pushups later to make up for not having MMA class last Sunday. Oh yeah, and I finally got my copy of the new Mountain Goats album in the mail (which I stupidly ordered in disc form for some fucking reason, but who the fuck cares because I am STOKED). So, I know it’s almost 2:30, but I’m at least going to try to make this a good day. Wish me luck.


ETA: I’m no longer regretting my choice of ordering a CD ’cause that shit came with a kickass poster and fucking STICKERS. Killer.

Nothing, More Nothing, Bathroom Break, Nothing

I tried a new migraine medicine last night ’cause I could feel a migraine brewing and I didn’t want it to last all through today, which is a thing that happens to me sometimes because 1 day of pain, nausea and sensory overload isn’t enough, clearly. I tried Axert. It’s in a class of drugs called triptans, of which I’ve tried 5 others: Zomig, Maxalt, Relpax, Frova and Treximent/Imitrex. Triptans work by shrinking the bloated blood vessels in your head that are causing the migraine. They also have like the worst motherfucking side effects of pretty much any drug I’ve ever taken (with the exception of that time I had an ear infection when I was 4 and my doctor prescribed the wrong dose of antibiotics and then we went to Virginia for Thanksgiving and I had diarrhea all over one of the dining room chairs and a few hours later was rushed to the hospital because I was screaming in pain and my mom said my distended belly looked like I swallowed a basketball. That was most certainly worse).

But triptans give me joint pain, a constricted feeling in my chest, a tingly and sensitive scalp, mild nausea depending on the drug, severe lethargy, feelings of sadness, loss of appetite, difficulty concentrating, irritability, and sensitivity to heat and cold. Also (fun) if I take one before I go to bed so I can sleep through the side effects, I get stress dreams. Good stuff.

There’s a supposed link between migraines and mental illness. I would actually go like look up some hard facts for you because this stuff is pretty interesting, but I’m so goddamned tired and I super don’t feel like it, so go do it yourself. Or don’t. But, migraines tend to afflict people with mental health issues more than the general population because LIFE IS TOTALLY FUCKING FAIR. When I was in the hospital a few years ago for bipolar shit, most of the professionals I talked to were really interested in my migraines and I didn’t know why until a while after I got out. But I had to give my medical history to like 2 or 3 different people every day and when they asked about other maladies I have (see LBD: comorbidity) I’d say “migraines” and they’d “ahh!” with a knowing nod and then not tell me shit about why my answer made them react. Hospital people tend to assume you’re an idiot.

I’ve been getting migraines since I was 9 which was roughly when I hit puberty (like I started growing pre-boobs and leg hair around then which seems early, but really isn’t, or so I’m told, because of dairy or chicken or whatever people feed children that has too much or too little of something in it, I don’t know, I don’t have kids and I’m rarely tasked with feeding them so I’m the wrong person to ask about the hormones in your kid’s poultry). I wasn’t treated for migraines until I was 15 because my dumbass pediatrician diagnosed me with “allergy headaches” despite the facts that a) I’m demonstrably not allergic to anything but bee stings and b) my migraines are so completely textbook, I can’t believe that dude has an actual job as an actual doctor for actual kids. He prescribed me an ineffectual plethora of allergy medications (most of which are now over-the-counter because this was 18 years ago) and most of which listed “headache” as a side effect, so I spent 6 years medicating my migraines with medication that made my migraines worse until my parents took me to a headache specialist when I was 15. It took my migraine doctor – who I still see like 3 times a year – about 40 seconds to diagnose me with what were VERY OBVIOUSLY GARDEN VARIETY MIGRAINES.

So he gave me Zomig and Zomig aborted my migraines when I needed it to. But after 3 or 4 years of crappy side-effects coupled with grueling prep school and topped with inadequate sleep and respite, I ditched the Zomig and – honestly, to this day, I don’t know how – I powered through ~6 years of migraines with coffee and ibuprofen and naps. I hate naps. I fucking hate naps. Naps are traps. So, fed up, I started shuffling through all these migraine pills trying to find the one that would be maximally effective and minimally uncomfortable to use. Fun thing: the meds that work the best for me (Zomig, Relpax, Treximet/Imitrex) give me the worst side effects. The drugs that are less effective (Maxalt, Frova) are easier to tolerate re: side effects. At the end of the day, I’m gonna feel like shit no matter what I do. Most people don’t have this problem as severely as I do and can take their migraine medicine and still function. I seem to be particularly sensitive to medication side effects, as was my dad (thanks, Dad) so that’s the reason I’ve been on the medication carrousel with these drugs for so long.

Last night, I just thought, what the hell, I’ll try the Axert and smoke some weed to dull the aches and hopefully I won’t have a migraine tomorrow. It’s tomorrow and I don’t have a migraine, but I still feel the Axert. I feel like crap. I’m exhausted – either from Axert induced lethargy or from 9 hours of the frantic-ass stress dreams I got instead of quality sleep last night – and I’m having mild pain in my joints and muscles. I’m also itchy. That one’s new. But the worst of it is twofold: I can’t think straight and I feel bummed out. How I managed 900 words so far is a little beyond me because my brain feels like gutter slush and I keep stopping what I’m doing to stare at nothing for like 15 seconds at a time. Also, I’m sad. Not genuinely sad, more just listless and bummed. I don’t wanna do anything, which is Ok because I have nothing I absolutely need to do today (but I have plenty of stuff I’d like to do today), BUT this brings me, at long last, to my dilemma:

Do I have a shower and some coffee and try to power through the discomfort and do something useful or do I throw in the towel, have a cup of THC laced hot cocoa and spend the day in bed watching Hoarders on my laptop?

I could go either way, really. I feel like there’s a “should” implied here, but it’s not a very convincing one because, seriously, there are like zero negative consequences to me accomplishing a heaping pile of nothing today. I have the option of accompanying my husband on the drive downtown to pick up his newly fixed up bass. If I did that, I’d get to chat with a friend of ours who works at the shop where Nameless Bass (my husband doesn’t name his instruments like I do) is being restored. But I don’t have a lot to say, ’cause, like I mentioned, my mind is running at a snail’s pace today and I’d be like, “Hi, Friend. How’s things? Good? Good. Me too. Kinda. Yeah. How’s your girlfriend? Any headway on those Grateful Dead 50th anniversary tix yet? That’s gonna be a shitshow. My sister’s gonna move Heaven and Earth to be there, she’s really persistent…” And then I’d be talking about the Grateful Dead which is basically the same thing as talking about nothing and the whole while I’d be like mining the sloppiest tar pits of my brain trying to string together the words to form a cogent sentence, which would invariably result in many pregnant pauses and OH MY GOD I DON’T FEEL LIKE IT. And seriously, why am I so itchy??

So that zero negative consequences thing isn’t 100% true because when I do nothing all day, I feel shitty about myself and I don’t wanna pile more shitty on top of the the shitty I already feel due to the meds. But I’m pretty sure I could forgive myself for one wasted day – after I got done berating myself for having wasted a whole day. Damned if I anything. Good for me.

Even after all this writing, I don’t feel much closer to a decision. My husband is making lunch downstairs and I can smell it and I totally don’t wanna eat it. It smells salty. I want ice cream. We don’t have any. Why don’t we have any? I think this post is devolving into unbridled whining. Whatever. I did a lot yesterday. Let’s go with cocoa and Hoarders.


I Did It So You Don’t Have To (Things To Avoid #1)

7/21/15 ETA: I found out later that it was something else messing with my head. CBD is 100% non-intoxicating.

Don’t go to therapy stoned.

I did this by accident twice and one of those times was today. The first time I did it, it was years ago when I was smoking weed every day. After class one afternoon, I went to my pothead boyfriend’s apartment to watch him play Super Smash Bros. and thumb through his record collection (activities that took up about 80% of our relationship). I took a few hits from his bong thinking I’d sober up by the time I got to therapy that evening. I did not. I already pay my therapist crazy ass money to go through my thoughts with a fine toothed comb, so being in that circumstance while high was excruciating. I felt like I was being interrogated. I had a shitty sense of how much time had passed and I probably said things that were inane at best and stoney babbling at worst. I guess I could have told my doctor that I was high. She wouldn’t have been mad at me or thrown me out or anything. She knows I don’t live in complete sobriety and she’s pretty nonjudgmental about it. But I felt like I was being disrespectful of her time or something, I dunno. So I squirmed through a disconcerting 45 minutes, then bolted to the train clad in sunglasses and shame.

Today, I woke up with a migraine. It wasn’t severe and I hate taking my migraine meds so I thought I’d try something that I’ve just recently been able to try. I have a medical grade marijuana “product” that comes on the form of a topical cream that’s dispensed from something that looks very much like a pen. This particular preparation does not have any THC in it, just 2mg of CBD (cannabidol – an ingredient in weed that treats pain, anxiety and some other shit while having pretty much no side effects when used correctly). I was told this would not get me high and so far, it really hasn’t. I had used this product to treat a migraine before and it worked astonishingly well to alleviate the pain, but I ultimately had to take my medication to eradicate the migraine completely. This morning I thought I’d just pile on some more of this stuff and see if I could beat the migraine into submission without taking Frova (a medication that treats migraines – in the same class as Zomig, Relpax, Immitrex, etc). So I dispensed about 3 and a half…servings? Doses? I dunno, there are no dosing instructions on the label. I rubbed some into my temples and the rest onto the veiny part of my wrists (which is how you’re supposed to do it) because this stuff gets absorbed into your bloodstream through your skin. Then I left the house. On the train I got really spacey. My feet are pretty much infallible when it comes to getting me to my doc’s office so I don’t actually have to think very hard about getting there. Autopilot or something. But I felt a little stoney. I mean I felt very confident that I was not entirely sober. I figured this time I’d just tell my doctor.

The weird thing about telling my doctor that I was stoned for our session: I kept trying to ram home the point that, not only was it not my intention to be high, I wasn’t even supposed to be high. She was more or less unfazed as, feeling some relief at having let the cat our of the bag, I sang the praises of the CBD pen for treating my migraine pain so effectively and I vowed to take this shit up with my neurologist next time I see him. When do I even see him next? I dunno? I saw him recently, kind of. I’m not gonna make an appointment just to tell him about this shit. But he should really know, right? I mean, the toughest thing about treating my migraines is my bad reaction to 4 of the 5 meds I’ve tried, so he should be thrilled about this, I’m gonna tell him. I mean it really helps. I mean I think I still need the meds but this seems important. I don’t even know what he’d do with this information. I’ve talked to him about smoking weed to help my migraines and he’s never told me to stop doing it and I think he should at least know, right? (and I ate into like 10 minutes of therapy time like this on this dumb as shit tangent before it occurred to me that I should probably talk about how the very recent death of a friend of my sister’s made me cry on the train yesterday and maybe we should talk about death in general since I’ve seen kind of a lot of it considering my age and…psychiatry…the thing I’m paying for…)

So, yeah, don’t go to therapy high (unless you’re high all the time, in which case don’t go the therapy sober). At best you might piss away 45 minutes worth of head shrinkage and, at worst, you’ll fidget under the meticulously observant eye of someone who’s basically trained to learn to how to read your thoughts. I did it so you don’t have to.