Sometimes a dream is just a dream. Right?
Since we have gone generic on most of our drugs, I have been able to cut my happy pill dose by 2/3s, and still feel okay. It is an anti-depressant as well as an anti-anxiety med.
I tried to quit it entirely, two years ago, but found myself very nervous and asthmatic, quite fearful actually, and my doctor ordered me to resume my dosage. I was trying to find my creative spark then, but all I got was worry and brooding.
So, now, I am taking 25 mg a day, down from 75 mg, and it appears to be just enough. I am more emotional, but that is okay. I have always been overly emotional.
Yesterday, I awoke from a different-from-normal kind of anxiety dream. In my dream, I was planning and trying to attend a birthday party for my mother. (She died in 1974, at age 42.) But, like in any anxiety dream, all the plans were stymied. The outfit I ordered special from a costume company, some sort of Annie Oakley outfit (!) was too small. The socks I wanted to wear didn't fit. The bus to the event was slow. People were late. I remember thinking, IMD, that I had wanted this to be a special occasion, but it was turning into an "everyday event." The dream made me sad.
I don't know what to think about this dream. I did see my mom, looking younger than I am now, in a white blouse with the collar turned up. Blonde hair teased into an up-do. Cat-eye glasses. She looked just like I remember her and not old. She would be 77 now, if she were alive.
Buster's appointment today is at 4:30. The vet prefers to schedule these sorts of visits late in the day, because it bums out everyone in the office. (I am glad that it does.)
Here is his story, from a previous post.
I have tried to be especially attentive to him these last few days, giving him little treats and rubbing his chest.
Sweetie has the grave prepared.
I am so sad.
