I waited until the morning of the seventh day to peel the old patch and slap a new one on – and that was a Terrible Dreadful Mistake, indeed. I knew the supposedly seven day patch had been pretty much exhausted by the end of the fourth day but for some reason I was determined to be a compliant patient and to go the full seven days – I made it to six and half, and I’ll not do that again.
Yesterday morning I was sure sure sure I was utterly broken, broken in so many ways, and the only rational course of action was suicide; I couldn’t do this, not anymore; couldn’t put myself together again; I couldn’t clean the house, or spend all my money, or anything. It was beyond dreadful – I did have the sense left to pull the old patch off first thing in the morning (leaving a little sucker mark on my thigh- get a few more and I’ll be starring in Japanese tentacle porn) and stick a new one on; then I wept on the phone, and then to the doctor’s office, and then all over my poor tenants, too. And I gradually regained my equilibrium as the day went on. Today, I’m pretty much fine, if a bit overtired and wrung out from all the emotional tohu-bohu.
It’s scary how very much of what we think of as our ‘self’ is simply chemical interactions- change the chemicals, and change the self.
The truth being: I am broken. The self that is ‘me’ isn’t going to work anymore without outside intervention; I’ll not survive the coming apocalypse. So much for that youthful dream!
And it sucks, and it’s harder than cancer ever was (for me, at least), it’s worse than chemotherapy, and it was most likely unnecessary. I wasn’t warned, and I should have been.
And there’s no changing it. There’s no going back, much as I would wish to; there’s nothing to do but get on with it, and figure it out. Which is what I’m doing today – the first lesson being to fuck with your meds when you know you need to.
Eventually, I’ll get around to cleaning the house.