All Wired Up and Nowhere to Go

There's ash all over my keyboard again, and now beneath the keys--no easy way to get that out of the computer. The only reason I'm awake is how violently pissed off I am by the doctor.

He theoretically accused me of being wired up by my doctors--well, more that me taking 0.25mg of xanax (the lowest dose made) for anxiety that I thought might almost mean I needed to go back to the psych ward was a problem. I couldn't get my RX because he is a moron about pharmacy law, which I didn't feel like arguing about--although if I had the chance right now I would.

Pain management doctors are so high and mighty, prosecution, judge, jury, and finally warden of the patient's medication. If he knew the laws in this state, he would know you can't fill an RX less than 2 days before the last day supply runs out (regardless of the date on the script, so if you have a 30 day supply, you can fill a new one in 28 days). He didn't know you can write in your own earliest fill day on the bottom of the RX, but it all has to be hand written. He was talking down to me about all of this, telling me that my pharmacist isn't do it properly and all this bullshit, when really I wanted to spit in his fat face.

Now I'm up at 3:30am smoking and ruminating.

Anxiety is a fucking side effect of Enbrel, my main medication for my undifferentiated spondylarthropathy (or USpA). It has been a miracle worker, but it doesn't do enough and I can't change that it is the last line of defense. I wonder if I shouldn't just lay down and go through withdrawal and wait to die in pain.

Fuck. I shouldn't let people crawl up under my skin, but I'd gladly trade bodies with a healthy person any day.

Earlier I wanted to bang my head against the wall, boiling over with rage and no way of expressing it, but I took a xanax and didn't hurt myself. Maybe it's just a bandage, but it's smaller than the one I'd need to cover the gash on my head.

Until tomorrow, with love,
Lucy