My mother came over to bring me my medications last night. She doesn't watch me like a hawk as my father is apt to do. I carefully slipped the many pills in my pocket when mom wasn't looking. I already feel better this morning. I am of the school of thought that if I take my anti-psychotic via injection then I am okay. All the other pills, my father cajoled the doctor into giving me. I don't have a mood disorder and I am not so obsessive compulsive as to lower the quality of my life. I actually enjoy being obsessive and compulsive to a certain extent. It certainly brings out my creativity and production writing wise.
"Joyce sure was crazy the other night," Mom told me sitting in my lounge chair with Maggie in her lap. "She was pitiful."
"I don't think I will see her till after Christmas," I replied.
"Was her counting her pills over and over getting on your nerves?" mom asked.
"Yeah, it was pretty over-the-top."
My mother left me the other night with Joyce, telling me later that she just couldn't take all that. Joyce is normally a reserved, pious, and religious woman and it was disturbing to me the way she was cussing up a storm. I had never heard such foul language come from a woman before other than Rosa. It definitely hit home the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde aspects of mental illness.