The thing about my daughter's OCD is that it triggers every abusive thing that's ever happened to me. I routinely stop breathing regularly around 7:30 pm because that's when it starts.
The thing about my daughter's OCD is that it triggers every abusive thing that's ever happened to me. I routinely stop breathing regularly around 7:30 pm because that's when it starts.
Several months ago I catastrophically injured my left knee. I wish I could brag that it happened while deadlifting my own weight or jumping out of an airplane, but no. I went upstairs to tuck Alex in for bed and hopped down onto his mattress on the floor, obviously forgetting this was the mattress that Dave and I had shared for the last five years of our marriage, which, five years AD, has the thickness of a hammock. With nothing but a soft perm to support it, I hit the floor and my ankle hit my butt with the full force of a 190 pounds. My inner child heard the crunch of a thousand sad trombones.
I knew it was bad.
At the time I'd been running religiously every day for over a month to get back into the practice of it (even On Sundays after everyone left brunch, yo!). I was more than halfway through couch to 5k again and loving every day of it when this happened. So after the initial swelling went down, I kept on running. It didn't hurt during a run, but within a few hours my knee looked like an orange, sometimes even turning a blood orange color from the internal bruising.
I took a month off. Maybe more. It's hard to make yourself do something that hurts. I went to my brother's wedding in California in May. I weighed 200 pounds and still felt like a goddess. Which isn't hard to do when you're wearing a sari that makes you feel like Wonder Woman.
A month earlier I'd had an epiphany that had resurrected my self-esteem:
Diets don't work. None of them. Not even the ones that disguise themselves as "lifestyle changes." I'd happily argue that they never really work for anyone, but I'm going to keep it safe and talk only about me. Every time I have ever gone on a diet that restricted my food intake in ANY way, no matter how much weight I lost to begin with, the end result has always been the same: extreme mental health problems resulting in catastrophic failure, followed by weight gain that left me heavier than my starting weight. This is a statistical fact for me. (And a sad reality for most people who weren't born with skinny brains.)
WHICH IS WHY I HAD GASTRIC BYPASS SURGERY. I looked at the math. It was undeniable. I made my decision accordingly. It was the best decision I have EVER made. No lie. No exaggeration. Do you know what it's like for a fat girl to walk into a restaurant and instead of ordering the salad that she "should" eat, orders whatever the fuck she wants? Because she physically CAN'T overeat?
It was FREEDOM. And in hindsight I realize that I've only lost weight successfully three times in my life, none of which involved any kind of dietary restriction: when I took PhenFen, during the first year after my surgery when I had no appetite, and when I was suffering from such crippling anxiety that I could barely tolerate food and the only thing that helped was running long distances.
So here I was FOR TWO YEARS complaining about not being able to lose weight and wondering what the fuck I was doing wrong? Why was I not successful? Why did I feel like a constant irredeemable failure every day with every food decision I made, good OR bad? Why did I expect a troll every time I looked in the mirror? Why was I obsessed with every morsel I put in my facehole instead of using this precious brain to think about more important things (ie: EVERY. OTHER. FUCKING. THING.)?
DUH! I went on a DIET. I went on LOTS of them. I'd been chasing the Holy Grail of that precious size six I was two years ago. No wonder I was up 15 pounds from my "normal" post-surgery weight! Why did I think I could do the same thing I've done HUNDREDS of times and expect a different result?
Because I forgot.
I forgot that it doesn't matter at all. None of it matters. The number on the scale is exactly like the number in my bank account - it's make-believe. It's fictional.
The number in the back of my dress is a currency I can't spend on anything that matters.
The stupidest thing is that when I risked my life for this shit over twelve years ago and had a surgeon cut up my intestines, I promised myself one thing: that I'd never go on a diet again. I had only two goals: stay under 200 pounds and run at least one 8-minute mile. MISSIONS ACCOMPLISHED, bish!
So I basically figured out that I was DONE. I wasn't breaking that promise again. I was going to eat whatever I wanted and weigh whatever I weighed.
And I was going to run. I would run and run and run. Goddess help me, I was going to fucking RUN.
When I got back from California, I scheduled an hour session with a personal trainer at my closest crossfit gym. I was SO excited. I loved every minute of it. I was stronger than I thought I was. She remarked at my form while I did squat after squat while learning to hold a barbell straight. Nothing hurt! I was healed! I felt like I'd finally found my THING, my new tribe. And this gym held daily classes that lined up perfectly with my lunch breaks! I was going to get strong and I was going to use that strength to run again without pain or swelling.
The next day I woke up with a coconut for a knee. I could barely walk. Every other muscle was that kind of delicious sore you get after running over ten miles or breaking a personal record. Every OTHER muscle was happy.
But my knee was done. Patrick and I were in the process of moving into the basement of our house that week and when I got FURIOUS with the layout of IKEA because I had to walk an additional 20 feet to get to an elevator, I knew it was over. I couldn't go down even a single flight of stairs without yelping.
I finally called OHSU and saw a sports doctor. She thought maybe I'd torn my ACL. Fixable, I thought!
The results were so much worse. It turns out I crunched my cartilage in four different places around my knee. I can't read an MRI to save my life, but I can tell you what jack-o-lantern teeth look like on a computer screen and that's what I saw. Sadly, cartilage isn't fixable. Our bodies don't make it and science doesn't have a replacement for it. The swelling is a permanent fixture for me because I'm allergic to NSAIDS. I can't take any kind of anti-inflammatory.
The doctor let me down slowly. "Instead of talking about your ability to run or do sports or crossfit, we need to start thinking about longevity." When I asked her if I could ever run again, she hesitated, presumably because she could tell I was going to burst into tears, and said, "I wouldn't say you CAN'T run, but I can't say you should. It'll be your call." What she DID say was that the only way I should ever consider running again is to get in such excellent shape that my other muscles overcompensate for my knee.
No running. No weightlifting. No high impact sports. DEFINITELY no trail running. No activity that causes my knee to bend at a greater than 90 degree angle. Crossfit NEVER.
When I asked what I COULD do, she said the worst words any fat girl can ever hear. She said it politely and she referred to studies, so I respected the advice, but she still said it: "You can lose weight."
I waited till I got to the car to start sobbing. Here I'd FINALLY decided that my body size was okay and that all I needed was fitness and then the doctor told me my body size was the thing inhibiting my fitness.
I took it seriously. I'm never going to lose weight to look pretty or be some patriarchally-approved size, but god damn, I love running. That very day I stopped eating carbohydrates. I gave up sugar. I was perfect for 45 days straight. I never cheated once and only lost seven pounds, five of which were during the first week.
On our anniversary, I let myself have a day off. I ate a single piece of sourdough toast with my Benedict breakfast, had a 6" Subway sandwich for lunch and then a single square inch of pita bread with my hummus and vegetables for dinner.
I gained back half the weight it had taken me a month and a half to lose in less than 24-hours.
I am SO pissed off at my body, you guys. SO FUCKING ANGRY. I'm doing ALL THE THINGS. Everything that usually works for me. My diet is basically every variation of fresh vegetables and grilled chicken that you could possibly imagine. I make everything from scratch. I eat like a goddess!
But it's hard to work out because every time I do my knee swells up twice its size. My right hip actually hurts more than my knee at this point because it's overcompensating for the weakness. Not to mention that I'm working ten hour days on my feet because it's our busy season. When I get home at night all I can do is put my feet up and complain.
Everything hurts. I feel like I've aged three decades in six months. I have less energy than I did at 300 pounds and I can only have sex in two positions. My goal is to buy myself a good bicycle and use that to work up to my former fitness level. Maybe I'll even start commuting to work. I only wish the idea of it wasn't so dastardly overwhelming.
We went to Oregon Country Faire and camped for five nights last weekend. I limped through it all because it is the most fun I get to have all year long. Patrick's fitbit says we averaged about five miles a day. I used to be able to run that with my hands tied behind my back; now just walking it left me bedraggled and hopelessly swollen.
I don't know exactly why 39 feels so much scarier to me than 40, but it does. Almost like it's my last year to be "young" and I have a lot to accomplish before my tits fall off or something. I don't know. What I DO know is that I have a lot to be grateful for. Every time my therapist asks what I worry about, I tell her the same thing: that I'm terrified I won't get to have this life forever. I get to start every day with a to do list - good coffee, healthy kids, effortless love, successful work, fly-ass cooking, a big messy house full of my favorite family, more love - and finish it every day with a full belly, good booze and a sense of accomplishment, even if almost never a restful night of sleep. Then every Sunday a tribe of my favorite humans descend on my house like a band of champagne-flute-winged angels and make me feel whole again, especially when I'm at my worst.
Most things about being human come easily to me and in my old age I'm finally beginning to recognize how much that has meant for my life and well being. I am privileged. And every time I think I'm finally understanding just how privileged I am, I get a new lesson. It happens every day.
This is the best part of aging.
A month ago, we got a legal notice that our landlord would not be renewing our lease. We needed to be out by May 23rd. My daughter's 9th birthday! Within hours we got invited to my brother's wedding on May 9th. HIS birthday. Then my car died to the tune of $500. Then I had to miss two lucrative days of work because all the stress of not knowing if my family had a home had weakened my immune system and I got so sick I woke up in the middle of the night unable to swallow. It was the "worst case" of strep throat my doctor had ever seen.
It went away with antibiotics. But it left an impression.
Our family is precious to me. Yesterday was Trans Day of Awareness and I didn't post anything. I didn't feel like I could. I'm not trans. But I like to think of myself as at least a little more aware than most. The main thing I'm aware of is that the trans kids under our roof will always HAVE a roof. They will always have a safe space to just BE. I will sleep on couches and happily sell plasma so they don't have to worry about finding bathrooms they can safely use without any need to justify their gender(s). I will spend my "old" age learning from them every day and I will value every minute of their company.
And they will teach my children how to teach the next generation.
A week ago we got news that the landlord will let us go month-to-month until we find something better. We're sure as shit not finding anything worse. We've always paid our rent a month in advance. We do beautiful, community-building things with this space. If my privilege has taught me anything, it's that it doesn't really belong to me. It belongs to everyone who's never had it.
If I want ANY thing at age 40, it's just this: more of what I've got and even more gratitude for all of it.
This afternoon after work Alex and I took the Max downtown to have a dinner and a movie date. I've been trying hard to make special time for him because his sister has been such a monumental pain in his ass lately. He keeps begging me to change the schedule so he never has to be around his sister ever. Unfortunately that will never work for any of us, but I don't mind taking him on my would-be kid-free weekends. In fact, I kinda dig the dude's company. Especially since I know first-hand how he feels when he gets ignored because one of his parents is busy dealing with a sibling meltdown. I had a pain-in-the-ass older brother who unwittingly stole my parents energy and attention (if not so much their affection) and can relate to feeling, like, sorry I'm so EASY GOING that I get totally ignored, MOMANDDAD. I won't be perfect at it by any stretch, but I'm actively trying to counteract said pain-in-the-ass-hattery.
And my son is just really COOL. He's the perfect hybrid between a surfer and a super geeky gamer, so I never need to worry that he'll become a pothead. He already sounds like one.
But I still wait until we've already boarded the Max to remind him about my project. I was somehow worried that by giving away our money to the homeless, my kids would feel neglected. We don't have a TV. I don't buy toys. Ever. The occasional song or game download, maybe, and plenty of out-of-the-house fun and activity, but I don't buy them STUFF. I was worried I'd hear some kind of hateful, "but you could buy us an iPad with that money," crap and need to sell them to the gypsies.
"I have $100 in my pocket. Let's try to find someone to give it to tonight, okay?"
Like a boss, he just nodded.
I had underestimated him.
We were on.
Our mission was to head to the Mission (theater) to see BladeRunner. MY mission was to get there early enough to find this guy I was looking for before the movie started. The guy who always slept under that weird right triangle shelter at the corner of NW 21st and NW Kearney, a few blocks from Joel's old apartment. I've walked past that dude at least a dozen times on my way to Cinema 21 to stand in line for the HUMP fest or to endure another Hitchcock movie and I thought it would feel good to pay forward all those times I stepped over him to get in line instead of helping him. Alex and I walked nearly two miles out of our way, but the only thing we found in that corner was a giant terracotta (cockblock) pot.
Plan B was to head to the corner of NW Irving and 18th, where I used to see a threesome of sleeping bags parked every night under the shelter of an auto shop driveway. A beefy utility truck had parked there instead, even though the building was still vacant. No humans. Another perfect sleeping bag spot, gone.
So we went to the movie. And walked out early because I forgot how dark and slow BladeRunner is. Alex finished his candy and wanted to go. So we did.
It wasn't until we got off the max for our line-change that we found our person. He was an early-twenties kid with rectangular geek glasses and a sign that said, "Please help, Laid off."
"This guy," I told Alex. We doubled back.
"Here's a hundred dollars," I said. "I hope it helps."
He horked out a combination of gratitude and shame that brought the first of the tears to my eyes.
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou. I've never had to do this before."
"I know. I could tell. And I've been there and I want to pay it forward."
A pause. A look. I'm guessing, a nod. (It all happened so fast.)
"Is it okay? Do you want a hug?" I asked.
He stood up.
"I'm Amanda," I whispered as we held each other. His sweater was soft and fine under my hands. J. Crew, I'm guessing, but only because I know what it's like to be him. His face was awful. I hate to say that about a person, but Last Resort I'll Do ANYthing is a LOOK. And I've sadly had it.
"My name is John," he said as he tumbled away. "Thank you so much. I'm gonna go find myself a room for tonight."
We crossed the street to wait for our next train. It took him a minute, but Alex's two cents bubbled to the surface pretty quickly.
"I think this homeless thing is pretty great, mom."
Neither of us can wait to do it again.
1. What did you do in 2014 that you’d never done before?
I finally went to New York.
I went to Oregon Country Fair.
I had ALLTHEBRUNCHES.
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I made two - to do comedy and to do brunch, weekly. The comedy thing proved challenging once I started getting busier, but weekly brunch was a treasure. The BEST thing I have ever done.
I'm making the BEST EVER resolution for 2015 - I'm gonna finally start my GIVE BACK thing and give 50% of my tips (roughly five grand) to the homeless. In hundred-dollar bills. Individually. One story at a time.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My friend and Chiropractor, Korin, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
5. What countries did you visit?
This one. I'm in the process of getting my passport and passports for the kids, though. Because I have PLANS!
6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?
Every year, I say the same thing - "More Patience. Capital P." But this our good friend, Patience with an ACTUAL Capital P, moved in and I can't think of a god damn thing I lacked this year. My buckets runneth over.
7. What dates from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
Patrick and I found the house and moved in together in May. I won't soon forget that. We celebrated our first anniversay on the 4th of July. Other than that it was my kids birthdays, an EPIC Halloween party, a lovely Thanksgiving. Oh, and Daniel hosted one hell of a birthday party when he turned 52.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I want to say brunch because it was certainly the BEST thing I did all year, but it didn't hurt, you know? It didn't take pain or practice or sacrifice. I just DID it and loved every minute of it.
So I'll say, instead, that my relationship with Patrick has been a huge achievement. Successful poly relationships aren't easy and I feel like we've both really put the work in this year. We've learned A LOT and I think we've both grown through all of it, both individually and as a unit. It still amazes me that it can be this easy to be this happy.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Exercise! I totally quit running this year and have really only been working out once a week, at best. Total FAIL.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Aside from weight gain, I've been relatively physically healthy. My mental health took a nose dive in the Fall, and that was ugly, but instead of adding more drugs, I reduced my Wellbutrin (which might have been causing some of my anxiety), bought a happy light and have been feeling much more like myself again. It was surprising and a little sad to find out that I still have a dark side when I'm not taking good care of myself.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
An iPhone for my 11 year old. Yep. I'm that mom. But I get to text my boy all the time and that's priceless.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My brother, Tom's. He's always been the good boy who did all the right things in the right order. But this year he fell in love with a goddess named Meg and married her before they'd even known each other for two months. It was the bravest, most honest thing he's ever done. He took a risk. And I've never seen him this happy.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
My own. I'm really the only person who has the power to get to me.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Food! Between living with roughly a dozen humans and hosting brunch every Sunday, we're keeping Fred Meyer in business.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The house. And for the first time ever, the anticipation wasn't NEARLY as good as the real thing. This HOUSE! YOU GUYZ!!
16. What song will always remind you of 2014?
All of Me by John Legend.
18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Drinking. (Sorry, not sorry.)
20. How did you spend Christmas?
With my kids, my boyrfriend, and a few of our closest peeps. We played Cards Against Humanity. It was perfection. This life!
21. Did you fall in love in 2014?
So many times. None of them romantic. But the people I get to see every week are lovable in every imaginable way.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
Same response as the last three years: what is this "TV" of which you speak?!?
23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
Same responses as the last three years: No. I can't think of ANYONE I hate.
24. What was the best book you read?
The Ethical Slut. Again. Only because I can't think of anything else I read. Books don't really happen much when you're busy building a community.
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
26. What did you want and get?
27. What did you want and not get?
The skinny gene.
28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Remind me again what movies are?
29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 38. Patrick took me to the Crystal Ballroom to see one Miss Sharon Jones. SHARON FUCKING JONES!
30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Is there anything?
31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2014?
32. What kept you sane?
Sam and Terry. Ramona. (My magical therapist). And my Big Tent of close peeps.
33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
34. What political issue stirred you the most?
The police. Fuck em.
35. Who did you miss?
Oddly my sibling, Andy. Long story. No short answer. They don't really want to talk with me, but I still miss them. I wish they could be part of this totally accepting world I live in and know how much I accept everything about them - even the annoying shit.
36. Who was the best new person you met?
One Patience Virtue. My sister from another mister. I've met A LOT of people this year, but she's a human who I GET. And she gets me. And it's magic.
37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014.
38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
The song about my Brunch Family...
"How many times do I have to tell you
Even when you're crying you're beautiful too
The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood
You're my downfall, you're my muse
My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues
I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you.
My head's under water
But I'm breathing fine
You're crazy and I'm out of my mind
'Cause all of me
Loves all of you
Love your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections
Give your all to me
I'll give my all to you
You're my end and my beginning
Even when I lose I'm winning
'Cause I give you all of me
And you give me all of you"
Today was the first day I've felt even remotely normal since I started Cymbalta. The weird twilightiness is gone and I haven't felt queasy all day, but I still have this weird lump in the back of my throat. My inner sci-fi nerd likes to imagine it as my brain stem swelling to adjust to the new chemicals. Otherwise, I'm okay. My mood has been excellent and I haven't had so much as a whiff of anxiety. It's too early to correlate those factors, but I'm still grateful to be on the mend.
I do miss Patrick something terrible. Not so much for me, but for HIM. He's staying in an exceptionally religious part of Israel, where it turns out nobody ever touches outside of shaking hands. And he's not allowed to shake hands with women at all. My poor love is terribly hug deprived and since he's hands-down the best hugger I've ever hugged, that's a travesty. To quote one of the basement dwellers, Patrick's hugs feel "exactly like dad hugs are supposed to feel." His hugs are legendary and verily missed. Seven days and counting till the poor man gets home and back to his regular daily intake of physical affection.
In the meantime I'm working and momming and playing endless rounds of Go Fish with Genoa and still catching up on dishes from Sunday's (epic) brunch. Tomorrow I see SamnTerry and then I have sleepovers planned for the kids for the weekend so their friends (and mine) can come hang out. Even in the absence of romance, I feel so lucky to have my brunch family here for friendship and affection and snuggles. Patrick might be visiting the holy LAND, but our community, our Church of Brunch? it's the holy GRAIL.
I dropped Patrick off at the airport at 6AM this morning and I missed him immediately. This isn't our first separation and I know it won't be our last, but I already wish he was here tonight holding my hand to his chest to stop me from biting my nails. He's amazingly kind about that.
It doesn't help that I took my first Cymbalta this morning and I've been sick as a dog all day. I somehow made it through my work day without hurling on anyone's vagina, but it wasn't for lack of effort. I've barely eaten. Apparently I forgot how shitty going on SSRI's can feel during the first few days. I'm not only nauseated, but I feel like I'm living in some kind of odd surreality. Almost as if I'm not processing my life in real time. I'm sure part of that is sleep deprivation, but the drugs cannot possibly be helping. I'll give myself a few weeks to feel normal again.
PLEASE SWEET VELVET JESUS WITH THE NORMAL.
I know no one will believe me when I say this, but I'm actually looking forward to just being with myself for the next week or so. I'll still get brunch and kids and a (HOPEFULLY) busy work schedule, but mostly I feel like building a fire, parking my person in front of it and just listening to the heat. I can't imagine I'll feel warm again until Patrick gets home, but I won't be cold. I'll just be me. In front of a fire. Watching. Not waiting.
I'm pretty sure that by rescheduling all of my Tuesday clients for Thursday, I single-handedly caused SNOWPOCALYPSE 2014, TWO POINT OH SHIT. We're expecting 4-6 inches of snow in the morning, followed by who knows how much freezing rain. Snow days sound awesome to most people, but not to those of us who work by appointment. Rescheduling everyone twice in one week will be a nightmare and that's assuming I don't end up stuck at work all night. I know I'm worst-case-scenario-ing, but how much would it suck to not get to spend tomorrow night with Patrick before he leaves for Israel for ten days? Or worse? What if his flight gets cancelled?
The only silver lining is I'll finally get to play with my kids during a snow storm. They're supposed to go back to dad's tomorrow, but I'm gonna just keep them here if school's cancelled. And this is PORTLAND. They cancel school for an inch of snow, so I can see some bad movies and Duraflame logs in our very near future. Never been so stoked to live so close to a park! Snowball fight!
Oh! Speaking of the park, they're shooting an episode of Grimm across the street this week, so that's been fun for the kids. We might not own a TV, but we've got a dozen trucks full of stage lights and scaffolding and some cool security guards hanging out in our front yard. We might have to watch whatever episode it is they're filming just to see if our house makes it into the background. That'd be cool for our little Church of Brunch.
UPDATE: I tried to publish this last night, but our Internet went out for the umpteenth time. (THANKS, OBAMA!). Snowpocalypse was a joke. School was delayed two hours, but I dropped the kids off at their dad's so I could go to work. We got an hour or two of snow/freezing rain just after my last client rescheduled. So I came home and hung out with Patrick. No snowball fights, unfortunately. His flight will most definitely be fine tomorrow and I'm going to miss the crap out of him.
Tonight we're going to see the HUMP festival, an hour and a half of local, homegrown, amateur porn hosted by Dan Savage. At least my man'll be going out with a bang!
(That was for you, Love.)
I got to work about three minutes after the transformer for our neighborhood blew out and our office lost power. I waxed my first client while the wax was still warm, only we had to use my iphone as a flashlight. I spent the rest of the day holding my wifi breath and praying the power would stop going out.
But I've been in SUCH a good mood. I can't wait to talk with the specialist tomorrow because I want it to be clear: I LOVE MY LIFE. I am too happy to be depressed. And sure I call myself a writer, but there just aren't words for my life. It's candy; it's cake; it's rain on my wedding day and somehow I seem to be getting married A LOT. It's literally soothing a barking dog and throwing myself into sex with my lover then folding laundry and calling the DMV even though they're closed and trying to build IKEA dressers even though I REALLY don't want to. It's South American jaw-dropping coffee followed by French white Bordeaux.
The kids ran outside during the wind storm and frolicked in the fallen leaves.
And it filled some small strange hole inside me.
After a brief and much-interrupted conversation about my Mental Health, my Doctor wrote me an Rx for 15mg of Abilify (which, for whatever reason, sounds like it's called Enabler). I'm not entirely sure she understood my symptoms, so I've got an appointment on Wednesday with a specialist and I'm going to wait until then to decide whether or not to start new meds. I'm sure Abilify is LOVELY, but I really want to make sure I NEED it before I go getting my brain chemistry hooked on an anti-psychotic that costs $800 a month. We shall see.
Any experience on this drug? Anyone? ANYone? Bueller?