Sheep One Gazillion and Counting
My plan for today was supposed to go something like this:
a.) go to work; bring laptop along so I can...
b.) get off work and FINALLY get a chance to finish my chapter
c.) go home and re-memorize my story for tomorrow's performance
d.) pack overnight bag. The train leaves at 1.
All of this is contingent on a normal sleep schedule, which isn't normally a big deal. One of the reasons I switched to later work hours is so I could actually go to shows, stumble home, and still wake up in time to get sweet, life-calming exercise and a slow shower. But my plan for last night, which was
a.) Go to bed at 11 and sleep till 7
turned into
a.) Take a Paxil, lie flat on the bed, and stare unblinkingly at the ceiling until sunrise.
I still haven't slept. It's been 26 hours now. I called in sick to work at hour 24 because I just know my body's going to collapse into a neurasthenic jelly any second, but even THEN, with no deadline stretching before me (that's usually relaxing, yes?), I have spent two more hours lying on the goddamn bed waiting for the Energizer Rodent of my brain to get off its fucking exercise wheel. "Enough already," I've been telling it. "You're gonna break the damn thing." If you hooked my brain to a train set, the energy on display would cut my carbon footprint in half. In fact, for all I know, the hamster shivered itself to pieces hours ago and there's just this empty wheel spinning and spinning and spinning...
So that's it. I'm officially off Paxil. I gave it a shot, doc, but I came to you for help calming down so I could do my job (editing very detailed puzzles) a bit more accurately. The last thing anyone needs is for me to come into work and editing with an empty hamster wheel. Next thing you know, I'll be cluing EVA as "Actress Gardner", I'll start spelling nickels as NICKLES, and before you can say "USA Today," I'll turn into Timothy Parker, only witout Merv Griffin's money.
Another reason I want to get back on Effexor is not only because it worked pretty well a few years ago, but because nothing gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies more than hearing people talk about their medications and symptoms. Can't that wait till I'm sixty? I'm only 39; I should be discussing mortgages and yield rates or something. So give me the meds and I promise to shut up about them. Thanks!
Actually, thinking about mortgages and yield rates gives me an idea: I want aspirin.
a.) go to work; bring laptop along so I can...
b.) get off work and FINALLY get a chance to finish my chapter
c.) go home and re-memorize my story for tomorrow's performance
d.) pack overnight bag. The train leaves at 1.
All of this is contingent on a normal sleep schedule, which isn't normally a big deal. One of the reasons I switched to later work hours is so I could actually go to shows, stumble home, and still wake up in time to get sweet, life-calming exercise and a slow shower. But my plan for last night, which was
a.) Go to bed at 11 and sleep till 7
turned into
a.) Take a Paxil, lie flat on the bed, and stare unblinkingly at the ceiling until sunrise.
I still haven't slept. It's been 26 hours now. I called in sick to work at hour 24 because I just know my body's going to collapse into a neurasthenic jelly any second, but even THEN, with no deadline stretching before me (that's usually relaxing, yes?), I have spent two more hours lying on the goddamn bed waiting for the Energizer Rodent of my brain to get off its fucking exercise wheel. "Enough already," I've been telling it. "You're gonna break the damn thing." If you hooked my brain to a train set, the energy on display would cut my carbon footprint in half. In fact, for all I know, the hamster shivered itself to pieces hours ago and there's just this empty wheel spinning and spinning and spinning...
So that's it. I'm officially off Paxil. I gave it a shot, doc, but I came to you for help calming down so I could do my job (editing very detailed puzzles) a bit more accurately. The last thing anyone needs is for me to come into work and editing with an empty hamster wheel. Next thing you know, I'll be cluing EVA as "Actress Gardner", I'll start spelling nickels as NICKLES, and before you can say "USA Today," I'll turn into Timothy Parker, only witout Merv Griffin's money.
Another reason I want to get back on Effexor is not only because it worked pretty well a few years ago, but because nothing gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies more than hearing people talk about their medications and symptoms. Can't that wait till I'm sixty? I'm only 39; I should be discussing mortgages and yield rates or something. So give me the meds and I promise to shut up about them. Thanks!
Actually, thinking about mortgages and yield rates gives me an idea: I want aspirin.
Labels: Dave Update
posted by Cowboy Dave Dickerson | 9:07 AM
3 Comments:
Sounds like you should drink some scotch with a bunch of atheists tonight.
Nice offer, but I predict I'll be collapsing in a corner, whimpering, and possibly running in my sleep.
Nothing fucks up a mind faster than Paxil, man. I took it for what I thought was depression (but was actually just ennui) back in 1998. It made me feel like I was hovering just at the edge of deep sleep all day, even while working. I couldn't concentrate to lift a box. Voices speaking to me were heard through three layers of down pillows. It's amazing I was able to drive a car. And my sex life dwindled into a negative number -- I thought my dick was going to mummify and fall off like a severed umbilical cord.
Get off Paxil. It sucks. Try Prozac, or go back to the Effexor you know works. Good luck.
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