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Rated: 18+ · Essay · Biographical · #2049834
A writing idea here that's very jumbled. Now, just trying to recapture conversations...
You are prescribing psychiatric medications for ME because of my Mother's problems. You stop doing that, because I'm not taking them anymore.

The Russian-European educated psychiatrist said, "IF you were raped, YOU were asking for it." Any American male would have had the common sense enough not to say that to any women, much less to a woman who was diagnosed as bipolar."

God let me boil silently only a few seconds. I rose from the patient sofa, walked the three paces across my psychiatrist's office, then slam-dunked a half consumed soda into the most benevolent physician's trash can, scoring three points in my head I was in control, barely, and I had no reason to be. Had he not been a stupid Russian, who could not tell me any significance he knew to the name of "James Dean," he would have realized in my eyes that he had a need to call security, and get them there fast. I seriously doubted he had security. The man wore plaid sports jackets. No man can insult ANY woman much more than his response to my allegation that his rxes had been a part of my being raped. Hell, he prescribed Xyrem, THE date rape drug. I left his office quickly, swooping out like some witch emboldened by an ignomonius spell.
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