Inside my brain, I feel like I'm suffocating, like someone is pulling out the oxygen--the voices prancing around with the conversations. Where in the room are my words?

With the added Zyprexa, I"m even more sluggish, slurring around the slop of which use to be intelligence discourse coming from my monologue. Me.

Now I cannot fantasize in there without commentary from two men, new residence in my home, my brain. 9. z.