I've been stoned for several days.
I decided after several weeks of extreme anxiety (so! MUCH! ENERGY! Concentration of a crack addled rabbit!) to get back on my anti-anxiety pills. Sweet, sweet little white pills that make me so happy! But the doctor decided to "try something new." I hate when they do that. I've been through this whole deal before with trying to find the right dosage. Too little and you are wasting your money. Too much and you sit on the couch like a zombie, unable to feel the slightest hint of ANY kind of alarm, good or bad.
An example of overmedicated:
A couple of years ago, my husband and I decided to have the first Christmas ever at our house. On Christmas Eve, I was doing some pre-cooking. At one point, I noticed that it seemed a little warmer than it usually gets in my kitchen. The OVEN was on FIRE. Literally. And I...did not react at all. I sort of mosied around the kitchen looking for baking soda, in case it was a grease fire. And I casually mentioned to my husband, "Darling of mine, the oven is on fire." To which he did not react for several more moments. I am still looking for baking soda when he wanders into the kitchen. "I'm sorry, did you say...holy shit the kitchen's on fire!" I took several more minutes to explain to him that it wasn't the KITCHEN it was the OVEN. Meanwhile, he put out the fire in about 10 seconds. And then he made me stop taking the pill I was on at the time, and dragged me to the doctor after the holiday.
This time around, the doctor took one look at my hands (I gnaw at my cuticles when I'm nervous, which is always, so my hands are about as attractive as...uh...scabby hands) and left for a minute to go look something up. When he came back, I had restacked the magazines, arranged everything on the counter so they lined up at perfect 90 degree angles, and was in the process of putting away some loose tongue depressors. This behavior may have influenced him to write a prescription that could have felled a moose. An obese, obsessive compulsive moose. I took three days worth of the stuff and I spent hours either staring into space, or hung over and tired, what with all the staring into space I was doing.
So, now the medication is leaving my system again and I am a little overly strung. But I want to be completely free of chemicals before I go back for some more chemicals, and I'm trying to tough it out. Then I thought: Self! You have a blog now! Go talk about some of your silly anxieties and maybe you can laugh at them and then they won't be so bad! Sometimes I'm very smart.
Things I Have a Tendency to Have Panic Attacks (no, really, panic attacks) Over:
1. A meteor may randomly fall from the heavens and land on me. Where I am. Killing me and making me dead. Very dead. And the part that truly panics me, is the complete lack of control I have over this event. Or any random event. Anything could happen at anytime that could render me dead. And then where would I be? I'd be dead, that's where.
2. I fully believe that my car is invisible as long as I am in it. People cannot see me. They are going to swerve into me at 75 miles an hour and if I am not dead, I will probably wish I were.
3. Losing my teeth. Either by having them knocked out or some dread dental disease or something, I am going to be toothless. In fairness, my grandmother had to have all her teeth pulled when she was my age. She wore dentures for the rest of her life and was forever worried that my grandfather would see her without her teeth. All I'm saying is, there's some precedent there.
4. My husband leaving me, which will end in me being required to sell my body for rent and drugs. I'm fully convinced. Even though I have a job, a master's degree, and various other factors in my life that make it unlikely I will ever have to be a crack whore, I am terrified of becoming a crack whore. I don't even think I would particularly enjoy crack. I vibrate like a tuning fork on a GOOD day, I'm not sure why I would ever choose to take something that would make me MORE like this. I'm not all that dependent on my husband, either. Maybe I'd need to live somewhere cheaper, and not have cable or internet, but I'm pretty sure a divorce does not equal a crack whore in most regular math.
And this has gotten super long. So consider this the ending to the post. Next time: Yes, yes I HAVE always been this way. Interesting childhood anxieties.