Chapter 7
Journal Entry for Friday November 7, 1997
I really need to stop trying to write these damn entries an hour before I go see my damn psychiatrist.
Unfortunately, my life just got a little more fucked up than it already was. Mom found a Ziploc baggie filled to the brim with marijuana in Brad's car. She started grilling Brad first, and he admitted first to just storing it. Then he admitted to occasionally smoking the pot. Next she grilled me, and, of course, I have nothing to admit to. Amazingly enough, she believed me. Mark was the last to be questioned, and he claims to only be smoking cigarettes.
I just can't believe their stupidity. I'll admit my taking ten Tylenol with codeine and drinking an entire bottle of Captain Morgan rum was extremely stupid, but that kind of thing can be pumped out of your body. (I know that is still no excuse for a sane, ration able person to do something that idiotic). Last time I checked though, all of the bad shit in cigarettes and marijuana can't get pumped out of one's body.
I called Lauren yesterday and talked to her for the first time since before I was in the hospital. She told me that she is definitely not pissed off; just a little shocked that I would do something like attempting suicide. Not surprisingly, her first question for me was: "Were you having one of your migraines at the time you tried this?" That one definitely threw me for a loop. I mulled it over for a few seconds, imagining every possible outcome for each possible answer. There were three main options for answers:
A. Lie
B. Tell the truth
C. Tell the partial truth, and say I was just having a bad headache.
Well, I couldn't lie to Lauren, not only would I feel horrible; she would detect the lie in an instant, so A was out. If I went with C, Lauren would figure out something was missing from the story, therefore leaving me with B as the only option. I expected her to launch into some sympathetic pep talk and suggest seeing another goddamn member of the fucking so called "health care system". Instead, the only immediate reply I received was a huge sigh. We talked for a few more minutes, but that sigh was really the end of our conversation.
Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck in a sea full of Jell-O and the harder I wade, the farther away from the shore I get pushed. And my damn psychiatrist just doesn't seem to realize how I feel. He has no idea what its like to feel like you don't even have a scintilla of control over anything going on in your life.
P.S. Since I know that my nosy son of a bitch damn psychiatrist will read this as soon as he can get his grubby little paws on it, the feeling of a lack of control sucks.
Great. Here I go with another damn migraine. This time, I'm taking something for it. I'm not going to even pull any kinda shit close to what I did a few months ago. Well, at least I have an excuse to be a bitch to my damn psychiatrist today. (Besides the fact that he's a stupid fuckin' bastard who only cares about the money he makes and his stupid fuckin' medical degree hanging on his wall).
Anyhow, the hour's up. I hear mom now coming down the stairs to remind me its time to leave. Pfft. Like I could forget.
-Randy
A/N: See, I wasn't lying. I really can consistently produce long chapters! Anyways, R&R, and as always, all suggestions are welcome.
Yours truly, Randy Taylor.
