She suggested I keep a log of my dreams as a way of tracking the 'waning intensity of suffering.''I don't like the term "dream journal,"' she told me at our in-person appointment in June. 'I prefer "night vision log.

I want downers, that much I know," I said frankly. "And I want something that'll put a damper on my need for company.I'm at the end of my rope," I said. "I'm an orphan, on top of it all. I probably have PTSD. My mother killed herself.""How?" Dr. Tuttle asked."Slit her wrists," I lied."Good to know.

When Reva gave advice, it sounded as though she were reading a bad made-for-TV movie script. "A walk around the block could do wonders for your mood," she said. "Aren't you hungry?""I'm not in the mood for food," I said. "And I don't feel like going anywhere.

Reva often spoke about 'settling down.' That sounded like death to me.'I'd rather be alone than anybody's live-in prostitute,' I said to Reva.

This movie inspires me to try new things," he said. "Like what?" I asked, amused by the thought that he might have the courage to do more in bed than reposition himself to get "better leverage.

I feel very, very alone.""We're all alone, Reva," I told her. It was true: I was, she was. This was the maximum comfort I could offer.

There are alternatives to medication, though they tend to have more disruptive side effects.""Like what?""Have you ever been in love?""In what sense?""We'll cross that road when we come to it.

Now write this down because I have a feeling you're too psychotic to remember: Saturday, January twentieth, at two o'clock. And try the Infermiterol. Bye-bye.

Did you bring your book of nightmares?" Dr. Tuttle asked, sitting down behind her desk.