Getting Better All The Time

It was pointed out to me that my writing on this website has suffered recently. I actually already knew that, but I was hoping that nobody else had noticed that 98% of my latest entries have been parts of my Grace in Small Things series, photo essays about craft projects, alerts to other places on the internet where I might have written something, or link collections. None of those things includes much in the way of groupings of sentences about one subject. There is a good reason for this, and if you have ever had to ween yourself off psychiatric medication, you will understand why I have been less communicative: I and Celexa parted ways a couple of weeks ago.

Just now, when I checked back to find the entry I wrote about my decision to kick Celexa, I was shocked to see that it has only been two weeks since I started down this road. It feels more like two months. Plus one forever. And two freaking eternities.

The side effects of this foray into a drug-free verion of my brand of crazy have been many. Headaches are my alarm clock; I alternately want to eat everything in the cupboards or abstain from anything that might touch my lips; noxious intestinal disruptions are, well, noxious; I have an aversion to regular bathing, because I find all that water moving against my skin to be overstimulating; weird, fluid, electrical surges puddle in parts of my body whenever I move quickly or hear a sharp, sudden noise; my gums vibrate; my emotions swing between extremes; I have dreams so vivid that I wake up believing that Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi are vacationing with me on a lush estate near Mumbai, India (Ellen loves my back rubs).

So, basically, I feel like I've been coming down from heavy, bean-fueled LSD trip with a side of rabies for over fourteen days. Needless to say, it has been a little difficult to concentrate on things like the construction of entire paragraphs much less remember to drink water or take vitamin C in order to stave off the cursed scurvy that I'm sure is imminent due to my recently erratic appetite.

It hasn't all been negative, though. Before I quit my medication, I was having nightmares every night. I don't know about you, but nightly excursions into deeply personal tales of fear, pain, loss, and failure take a toll on a person. The spontaneous urges to off myself were no fun, either, and, thankfully, those have disappeared for the most part now that I am medication free. One moment, I would be enjoying a nice walk through the crisp winter air, and the next moment, I would be contemplating lying down behind the tires of a nearby semi truck that was just about to back out of a parking lot. I deem that kind of thinking unnecessary.

So, hooray for me for coming thus far through this trial by fire. Two weeks along, the physical side effects are easing up a bit. I am still an emotional teenager — I have four moods: really mad, really happy, really sad, and really giggling — but at least every movement and sound isn't accompanied by trippy waves of electricity puddling in my face and fingers. It was difficult to explain to others why I kept staring at my hands like a tweaking high school kid.

It took me two-and-a-half hours to write this entry, so my ability to concentrate could still use some improvement, but I'm sure that's coming down the post-medication pike. If not, I'm going to have to stick with lists and short poems, like this haiku:

Seventeen beats
seems such a happy relief
to a scattered mind.

Here's to hoping that this lack of focus is short-lived.