Let's just add some additional color about my doctor's appointment yesterday. A: I hate the way doctors just assume that you want to do everything you can to live as long as possible. Some of us have had enough. B: I know you are a salesman. That's all you are. You paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for a piece of paper and went to school for God knows how long to be a salesman for the medical industry. (Not all of them are like this, but enough are.) C: I have a GED and my multi-million-dollar ex-boyfriend has a high school diploma. I don't want you to make me decide if I'm smarter than you. You're probably going to lose and I'm going to be an awfully mean bitch about it. C: The correct way for a doctor to talk to me is: this is what I and the medical profession believe you should do. What do you think about it? What do you want to do? Trying to push something on me will get you shut down, EVERY time.

Story: I had voluntarily gone to the Mount Sinai mental hospital wing in Miami Beach. I woke up crying in waves with no explanation. My thoughts were suicidal. I'm in the hospital the first day there. A woman wakes me up to ask me what I like doing. I listed off the things I am now currently capable of doing, and the things I just have to do now. When this was not good enough of an answer for her, I tried to come up with other things that would shut her up. I mentioned that I loved podcasts. In 2023, at a hospital in Miami Beach, Florida, the woman did not know what a podcast was. This set me off. Explosion. When I asked her what Third World country she received a medical license in, she slinked out of the room like most of them do. That is when I got put on 100 mg of my antipsychotic. It worked great in the hospital. Because of my situation and because I was in a brand new environment, there had to be someone with me 24 hours a day in the hospital. I felt safe. Nothing was going to happen. No bad dreams. Just amazing, amazing sleep. Well, I started biting them in half because of the nightmares and I did not have another prescription refill for them. I was out. I needed to make it last as long as I could. And I did not love taking them. 100 mg would knock me out for 15 hours. So sleepy — I would wake up from a bad dream just to fall asleep again and the dreams would start over. So I asked this guy at this place if he could get me a prescription for 50 mg pills. He did, and it dramatically helped. If anything, I am too productive and it's hard for me to shut my mouth. I only sleep for 10 to 12 hours instead of 15 and there are fewer nightmares. When I went yesterday and asked for 25, the main doctor did not understand what I wanted to do. She thought I was trying to come off of it completely. I was trying to eliminate the nightmares and maybe make me feel a little less manic. But I talked to my guy and of course he agreed to let me try. We align with our medical theories. The less medicine the better. He informed me just yesterday that you're not supposed to cut those pills in half. He never scolded me for it when I admitted to doing it — he just gave me the correct dosage so I did not have to bite them in half. He informed me yesterday that those pills are not supposed to be cut; they work best when they are whole. That is the correct way to talk to me. Don't scold me for what I'm doing — give me the tools I need to accomplish what I want. Stand back. Then give me the correct information once I'm doing the correct thing, and it's not going to feel like you are attacking me for doing what I need to do. He asked me about my dreams. Apparently if you are just reliving past events, it's different from having dreams that just come out of nowhere. I feel like somebody cares about me. They let me talk. They let me explain. And they don't try to push shit on me.

Last time I went there I went by myself. He helped me down to the front. I shook his hand as he left work and I waited for my ride. First of all, it does not hurt that he has big, strong, wide, thick, manly hands. Second of all, he told me he watched me and made sure I got picked up. I'm a little sexist. Men turn me into piles of goo if they have the right attributes. Lol, it's the way God made me. Built in natural bias. I try my best to make up for it. Lol

Written by B. On July 1st, 2026.