A woman of 35 comes today to renew her prescription for prozac. I ask how she is, and all the suppressed rage against life pours out of her in a torrent. She is a talented actress,but has been "between engagements" for nearly 2 years- "it's the cuts, innit" she fumes.
She is also an extremely attractive woman as well as possessing of a superior intelligence. But this unusual combination of gifts is no solace to her: she doesn't know how to be happy, and I don't know how to help her to be so. She has had several courses of psychotherapy over the years which have achieved zilch, and of course the prozac is little better than a placebo, though of course the doctor has to feel he is doing something. I give her a handful of diazepam for the worst of her anxiety symptoms, warning her they are addictive, and finally arrange to see her again in a month.
It's what I do.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment