...that someday my shrink will give me phenobarbital syrup again. That was some dope dope.

Instead, he told me to increase my antipsychotic to quell the nightmares/sleep trouble I've been having. Unfortunately, that makes me a zombie (or zombie-esque, at any rate), so waking and ambulating will be more challenging. But I have to get some sleep.

My least favorite answer from my shrink is that my particular troubles—whatever they might be that week—are related primarily to my psychology rather than to a chemical imbalance. Then I'm just a garden-variety neurotic, and that's just so lacking in romance.

A friend suggested that when I feel the anxiety coming on (when I'm awake, that is) I return to my old flame: a cigarette. And it's true, smoking always did the trick for me. I told my shrink I thought it was an unsound suggestion, but a good idea nonetheless. He told me to take more Ativan. I might become a junkie, yes, but at least I won't die of lung cancer. Point taken.