Now, there is a generic for Cymbalta. According to our pet pharmacist (the head pharmacist at our brick and mortar is a very nice German lady that Doc flirts with, with bits of German I taught him, she is now always available to talk to him when he calls), the generic is almost chemically identical to the brand name. Which is why it works. Also, according to her, there are no other depression meds that even come close chemically to the make-up of Cymbalta. Every time my doctor writes a script, he has to write a letter insisting that I must be on Cymbalta, that there are no other alternatives for me. And each time he must attach years worth of scripts and notes that back that up.
As it is right now, I pay $100 for a three month script of the generic. At any other brick and mortar, it would be $900 for the three month supply, according to the website pricing wizard. A few phone calls, including one to the always awesome Robin, the office manager and head nurse at my doctor's office, pleading for help, and we discovered that no other brick and mortars actually carry the generic. A couple of pharmacists said it was because of the slight chemical differences.
This leaves me looking forward to the new year with a new challenge. Cymbalta, retail, without coverage, is $1800 a month for my dosage. that is twice my monthly stipend, which is already spent on rent and bills the minute it is deposited in my account. I am feeling rather hopeless. Even though I was able to talk to my doctor and he assured me we would find a solution before the end of the year, we discussed the reality that I may need to go inpatient for a few weeks to sort out a new treatment in a safe environment. Especially considering my episode last night.
So it was a pretty stressless day until that happened. And it threw me into a complete panic. Which I had to hide so Doc didn't feel compelled to stay home with me again. I'm feeling steadier now. Nothing near as bad as last night. Just the slight depression that always follows an episode.
You know, I thought my meds were settled, finally. I guess it's because we just signed a new lease on the house. So I just got confirmation that things will stay the same, living wise, for the next year. And that took a load off my shoulders. then this comes up.
I just want to scream at the universe to leave me the fuck alone for a few weeks. Just a little vacation.
I have to clean the house tonight. That should be quick. Then I have to work on the new set of interview questions from the playwright. Oddly enough, the current questions are about meds and episodes. So I have some very real-time information for her. I can't wait to read the finished work. She is striving so hard to keep the portrayal of the schizophrenic character free of stereotype. I think I can impart that to her.
I haven't eaten all day. I should make an english muffin with butter and jam. Sourdough or cinnamon raisin? Strawberry jam, of course.
Fuck man, someone is out on the driveway. It's all well and good to say "ok" when Doc says to go out and check with the big torch that weighs three pounds and doubles as a blunt force object, it's another thing to actually do it. I am a chicken shit. Especially because I know who I am going to be dealing with, and I know he will call the police if I confront him. No cops. I think that is his plan. Get me out of the house, fuck with me until I lose my temper and then bring the cops in and get me hauled away.
Ok, I went out with the torch. Didn't see anyone, but the driver-side door of the truck was open. Like it had been opened, and then not quite shut. It wasn't like that two hours ago. I know because Doc and I were looking at that door and the large amount of water that had drained from just that side of the truck when it rained earlier. The truck is still full of S's stuff. Nothing of ours is in there, and we have the face to the stereo in here, which is the only thing of value in the big-ass truck. But it's not about stealing, it's about sneaking around and fucking with my head.
If I could catch him, I could get a restraining order. I'm just afraid of him. His weapon is bullshit and the ability to make up completely whacked stuff and make it sound believable and his quick dial of 911. He was once a close friend, he knows my weakness. I won't ever make that mistake with a face-to-face human again.
And this isn't just me being paranoid. I've got this alcoholic "stalker" with a mean streak and too much time on his hands. He's not actually a stalker. I never go anywhere for him to stalk. He stalks my facebook feed, I don't much care about that. And every few weeks, he comes over and fucks around the back gate trying to get in to where I spend most of my free time, on the patio. Thing is, outside of my property, I can only carry a 3" blade. On my property, I can defend myself with whatever I have.
This is stupid. Just sitting here thinking about it is stupid. I'm going to go clean the house and drink the fresh coffee I just made, and maybe make an english muffin.