Its been nearly three weeks since this new journey began, and for the record, I want it to stop. Or maybe to fast forward. Either way, this has not been the high point of my life so far. First of all – withdrawing from medication. Not as bad as it could’ve been since I was feeling so crap that my compliance had been erratic to say the least.
But when you think about it, when is the worst time to come off all psychiatric medicine? Perhaps when you’ve been seriously considering your last hoorah. On the plus side I was so whacked out on the anti-psychotics that I was given to get rid of the edginess of withdrawal, I was probably safe, since I could hardly form a more coherent sentence than “Ok, I think it might be time for me to go for a little nappy-nap”, never mind for a plan for anything more taxing than calculating the shortest distance at anytime between me and my bed.
By the end of that week then, I was starting to feel a bit better, thoughts starting to form recognizable shapes in my little head.
Of course, I had forgotten the joy that is starting new medication. I’d also forgotten how long it takes for your body and your head to get used to the new cocktail that is coursing around. It’s been two weeks now and still… I mean its frickin six in the am and I’m buzzing like a bee, unable to sleep, but I know that when the land of nod finally beckons there will be no waking me til at least four. That’s right new medication turns this camper into a sixteen year old boy. Grrr.