Upper West Side, New York City

I have programmed the song “Breathe” by Michelle Branch as my cell phone alarm clock in the hopes that a positive song will help me think positively, but even so, morning comes too quickly. Still groggy from the cocktail of drugs I took so I could sleep, and still trying to decide whether or not I actually slept, I’m sure about only three things: positive thinking doesn’t work, self-medication does, and my supply of sleeping pills, distributed by my parents, is waning. Growing up medicated and surrounded by doctors, I learned to use drugs to assuage unwanted feelings. Today is no exception. Obsessing over my breakup with Ashley—the reason I can’t sleep—I look up shrinks covered by my insurance and find an Upper West Side psychiatrist named Dr. Sylvia Goldstein.

She schedules me for the next evening at 8:00 p.m. I wonder what sort of doctor has office hours that late at night.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.