Part One: Triangles
After I left the session that fucking envelope was too tempting. An address and phone number in black, barely legible scrawl, the way they all seem to write. Sealed stuff always does win out–especially when it’s about you.
‘Thank you for seeing Miss Kathryn Muscat (age 23 yrs) for opinion and management concerning a long standing mood disorder… I have sent her to a counsellor recently, and have tried her on Aropax and Efexor with little help. She currently takes Diazepam on a PRN basis, but has found this becoming less effective. She is aware of alcohol dependency, both physical and psychological…She regularly experiences panic attacks and episodes of marked confusion and despair. Her symptoms are incredibly intrusive, and I feel she needs long term medication but am at a loss as to the best option given her poor response to treatment.’
So, reading my doctor’s referral was a mistake. It’s a spare copy in case the fax didn’t work because apparently people still fax things. Luckily, the restaurant I’ve retreated to is mostly empty during my silent-movie-star cry, the one that only happens when no one’s around to give me kudos for such glamorous sadness. Though I’m still ready with an excuse about accidentally putting too much chili in my pho.
On the way home I fill the new script. The pharmacist’s low-down contradicts that of the psychiatrist and I am given a different hand-out. This one I don’t read.
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