hip shot

So, there I was, popping pills like a candy addict at a parade, when the doc drops the bomb: “How about a shot in the hip every month?” I blinked. “You mean, like, a vaccine?” He chuckled. “No, a big ol’ needle of antipsychotic goodness.”

Fast forward to the first injection. The nurse wields the needle like a sword, and I’m thinking, “This is it. This is how I go.” But no, she jabs me, and I don’t even flinch.

A month later, I realize I haven’t had a meltdown in weeks. No more daily pill-popping rituals. Just a monthly rendezvous with Nurse Needle.

Is it a miracle? Nah. But it’s a hell of a lot better than the daily circus I was running. So, here’s to the hip shot—the unsung hero of my mental health saga.

So, I traded daily pills for a monthly hip shot. It’s been a wild ride—my body had to adjust, and I had to relearn how to manage my life without the constant ups and downs.

Stability didn’t mean perfection. I still had bad days, but they were fewer and farther between. I learned to ride the waves instead of being tossed around by them. The injections weren’t a cure-all, but they were a damn good start.