That’s right folks, today I actually made it all the way to the psychiatrists office. I was scheduled for a 12.20pm appointment, and made it there at 12.35pm. Better than last time when I didn’t get there at all. The only reason I managed to make it though is that his secretary called at 11am to see if I was coming, as they had had a request for an appointment for someone, and then John called at about 11.45am.
The psychiatrist actually suggested reducing my dose by 37.5mg, back to where it was previously, since there had been no improvement at the higher dose, and it was actually making me quite anxious. And he thinks since I was able to make it out of the house today “with encouragement”, that there is no reason why I can’t everyday. Easier said than done. That aside, though, I am going to attempt to go to some Biennale lectures with John tomorrow, but I might wimp out.
It all comes back to “being a good girl” and “doing what is good for me”, even though it is painful and horrible to do so. It pisses me off that I am expected to go through a rote behaviour – smile the smiles, walk the walk, talk the talk – even if it is the last thing in the known universe I feel like doing. I hate feeling so separated from myself. And I do when I do that – I meet the expectations of me, but I am not true to myself.
It seems to me that the criteria for getting better is for me to totally ignore what I am feeling, and pretend that I’m little Miss Mary-Sue, who has never had a sad day in her life, is super popular, loves going to parties, gossips on the telephone, does all the housework, is super-efficient, smiles constantly, makes everyone else’s life easy, all while baking cupcakes in her spare time. Fuck that. I am sick of trying to live up to people’s expectations of me.