The time has come. After getting into an altercation with my Harley-driving, noise-loving lowlife neighbor across the street, during which I called her a bitch and she called me a fat cow, Dr. S. has finally agreed to allow me to come off the R. I'd rather be called a vicious cunt or an ugly whore, but fat cow had me curled up on the sofa sobbing for three hours. So now, my task at hand is devising ways to prevent me from becoming a raving lunatic as the soft cushioning of the drug is being peeled away, minute by agonizing minute. When you first take R., after a very short time, you feel like the most normal, happy person in the whole world. You sleep at night and wake up in the morning thinking of coffee instead of Sylvia Plath vs. Hemingway ways to go. You can take care of your baby without wishing it were dead. You can have friends and conversations and make plans that don't involve knives. Then, after a few month of bliss, you notice that---egad---you have gained thirty pounds, but you reckon being fat is superiors to being suicidal. Then the fat just stays and next thing you know you're a fat cow and that's that. The fat lady sings.
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