Addict

I'm doing okay with the Xanax my doctor prescribed. I knew damn well that I could not trust myself to take them as prescribed. I'm too compulsive, and they make me feel so good. And in my addict's mind, I'd start thinking, "If one makes me feel good, two would make me feel better." And so on, until I'd be taking five or six at a pop, or even more.

So I gave them to my husband and told him to hide them, and not to give them to me unless he could see that I was having a panic attack. And, thank heavens, he knows me well enough to know that this is the only safe way for me to have addictive drugs in the house, so he's cooperating.

It's easier for me this way. Since getting the prescription, I've taken exactly three of them. And oddly enough, my anxiety level has gone way down, all on its own. I feel safer than I did before. I know I have an "out" if things get too bad, but at the same time I don't have the bottle there, calling to me all the time.

I've been wanting to talk more about my mother, and about why I hate her so much. But that can wait. It's a beautiful Saturday morning, not a good time to start dredging up the nastiest muck from the bottom of my soul.