I have an appointment with my psychiatrist in a half-hour, and again I feel reluctant to go. Part of it is that I've been struggling with a demi-migraine last night and today. Last night I got the aura—that strange buzzy feeling in the top of my head that let me know a headache was coming. I woke up a couple times last night to try and deal with the pain, but now it's just pushing, pushing, like an angry cloud over my right eye.

But the other reason I don't want to go is that I worry so much about the money—$125 each time—that it's hard for me to focus on our session. When we're not talking medications, we're just talking about my problems that aren't related to bipolar disorder—my garden-variety neuroses, like feeling overwhelmingly guilty about homeless people. And doesn't that seem expensive just to hear myself kvetch? I can have that same conversation with my boyfriend Vince.

True, Vince doesn't listen as intently. The other night, in fact, he admitted he was thinking, while I was talking, "How can I made a graceful exit?" My psychiatrist never thinks that, and come to think of it, neither would my boyfriend if I paid for every conversation with sexual favors. I mean, not to get too graphic here, but if a guy thinks he's going to get laid—or get something else, if you know what I mean—he tends to be very attentive. Anyway.

But I guess I'll go anyway. When you're as crazy as I am, it's like preventive medicine. You can never have too much shrinkage.