A friend texted, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what that’s like, but I’m sorry,” and it took me a minute to figure out a way to explain it. I finally texted back, “It’s like you’re going crazy, and you can’t do anything about it.” And that is the best way I have found yet to describe the sensation of going off Effexor.
I thought I’d write a blog entry and then I’d be sad for awhile and then I’d move on to greener fields and less crazy pastures, because that is how things usually go, right? You deal with them and you move on. But it turns out that this shit just keeps happening, and it gets worse the lower the dose and I am getting pretty tired of spending so much time feeling sorry for myself.
It’s gotten to the point where I stop, before I post on Twitter or on Facebook, and I think to myself, “Is this a cry for help?” By which I mean, am I whining again? Usually yes. Sometimes I post anyway! Because undeniably, it is nice to be told that people love you, that people are thinking about you, that people know you will be okay and they are rooting for you, and here is a wonderful puppy to enjoy in the meantime.
It’s especially nice when you’ve locked yourself away like you are Mr. Rochester and also, at the same time! Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife in the attic. I cannot be seen! I am an abomination! I must not be spoken to! I must not be spoken of! I am so lonely and crazy, I am going to set the house on fire! And then I’m going to sit on the couch while it burns because making my way to the roof is much too difficult.
That is an extended literary analogy for my state of mind at this current moment. So you see how it is. With the craziness and everything.
E has been a saint, and patient with the flailing and accepting the endless apologies for the endless cycles of sadness and anger and sadness and anger. He tells me it’s not going to be much longer, and that he can tell that I am more like myself than I have been in a long time, and I cling to that. I am becoming more like myself. Hopefully with the excess crazy trimmed away.
Physically it has been odd; the brain flashes have minimized, but I have headaches and I am sleeping like the dead every night for twelve hours. It’s hard to wake up, and then I take a nap. I keep forgetting things. I have placed more non-food items in the fridge these past few weeks than I have in my entire life up until this point, and I have always been the kind of person to absent-mindedly leave my phone in the oven and pour boiling water into the sugar jar instead of over the tea bag in my cup. Both of which are things I have also managed to do in the past two weeks.
I’ve been trying to do whatever it is I feel like I need to do to take care of myself, without feeling guilty. I write, and I stay inside and I say no when I have to, and I keep a to-do list and carefully check off items on the to-do list, which makes me feel steady and like I’m staying on course and not falling behind. The dogs keep me sane and the writing, every day, keeps me feeling worthwhile and I am getting through this. Not as quickly as I would have liked, but steady going, straight ahead.