No More Injections, Please?

Dad called me very early this morning. It was about 7am. He told me he was cooking some strawberry muffins in the oven.  I was scrambling some eggs and frying some bacon in the kitchen when I heard my phone buzz softly in the bedroom. I was in a generally pleasant mood at the time – eager to eat a good breakfast feeling famished. “Why don’t you go get your Risperdal Consta injection this Thursday?” my father asked trying to be helpful. “You seem to be struggling this week. You struggled last week, too! I just want to help. I will set everything up.” “I will be too sleepy to struggle or do anything if I get that damned injection,” I replied, angrily snapping at my father and jumping the gun. I immediately went on the defensive. I told my father that I didn’t want to discuss it any longer and got off the phone. He later called me at the The Literacy Center to apologize. I stepped outside to take the call. I also apologized for getting so angry as well earlier. “I just think it helps calm your mind down,” dad told me during our later discussion. “I just love you and want to help.” “I love you, too, dad,” I told him honestly. “But you are wrong about this injection – completely barking up the wrong tree. My life will come to a complete screeching halt when I take it! I will sleep around the clock for days or weeks.” Dad grumbled and pleaded some more very mildly. I don’t understand his infatuation with this damnable injected medicatio...
Source: The 4th Avenue Blues - Category: Mental Illness Authors: Source Type: blogs