I saw my p-doc today.  As I watched him looking at my shaky, restless hands I tried to slow the stream of words.  I told him that I was much better than the last time we'd met, but that I was rapid cycling.  My speech rushes along to push the relentless patter of my mind out, while I handle my anxiety by tearing at the skin of my feet.  Waves of depression swell over me, leaving me achingly sad.

He took me off Pristiq, which we'd added last month as I was at the outside level of Effexor that SSDI insurance covers; 300mgs.  I have done well on 450mgs, but can't afford it.  Pristiq works better at lower doses and Doctor Z said that my rapid cycling was a result of too much anti-depressants.  I have been unable to work, because of my stressed mind, which is not great, in light of the expense of life, this season and the on-going debt that I owe Cricket.

Cricket is my best friend, who has sometimes been confused, by some, like my doctors on lock-down wards as my imaginary friend, or when they meet her, my life paramour.  She stood by me when my sister shut me out, when my father refused to see me ever again, when I should have been put in a State Hospital.  Which, without her, would have been my lot in life.

Anyway, I was over at Liz Spikol's site, where she had a link to an article about Holiday Depression Busters.  I haven't read the whole piece, because of relentless pop-up ads, one of which gave me pause.  The ad was for Pristiq, which along with being annoying, was a little offensive to me.

The ad features a woman of no particular ethnicity.  (Having studied voice-over as well as on-camera acting, I know that is now highly desirable, after decades of Caucasion persuasion).  But my problem lay not with the woman, but with her wardrobe and pose, which revealed a plunging cleavage.  It may just be me, but if I, as a heterosexual woman, finds my eyes looking at the decolletage, then what does it say about me, the ad and the message therein?