The Dirt Field

In an attempt to make the people around me apprehensive that I may try to kill them unexpectedly, I’ve been tampering with my antidepressant medication. I’d originally reached a happy place with my daily dosage, a sunny spot that allowed me to take things like getting run over with a dump truck in stride. But then about a month ago, I ran out of pills unexpectedly (well, as unexpectedly as you’d expect when you watch the number in the bottle dwindle but are too lazy to call in a refill) and by the time the new bottle arrived in the mail, it had been over a week since my last dose. And then, although I started right back up again, I had to battle through the side effects that I’d dealt with initially, side effects that became so annoying that I have quit taking the medication entirely. Now I just snort cocaine.

It’s been an odd couple of days off the medication now. My moods have fluctuated from irritated to unhappy to downright outraged that I am forced to shower and go to work everyday and speak to people. In Starbucks this morning, the man who had been in line behind me kept grabbing drinks off the bar and demanding that the barista tell him yet again what they were, in case they might be his. Because, you know, the barista had decided to skip the seven thousand people in line before this guy and make his drink first. Realizing that his repeated questioning was slowing the barista down, I finally stepped forward, told the guy exactly what drinks were already sitting there, and snarled, “You were in line BEHIND ME, so CHANCES ARE that if I do not yet have my drink, NEITHER WILL YOU.” I’m fairly certain he is probably still standing there, too timid to touch another drink ever again.

There are other little signs that something is amiss, signs like the fact that I’ve ended the past two nights by passing out in my clothes with the lights on at ten in the evening. The idea of brushing my teeth or washing my face is far too taxing, but I can’t turn the lights off until I am 115% ready for bed, so I sleep in a brightly lit room all night. Except that the lights interrupt my sleep just enough that I have crazy dreams about lions and tigers and having my car stolen by a woman who cried when I yelled at her. Really, though, I’m fine.

I also have difficulty handling minor situations. When I arrived at work yesterday, my mouse was missing from my desk. I had to find a new mouse and bleach it with harsh chemicals to remove any trace of Dirty Other People that may have ever come in contact with it. When my old mouse was returned to me later in the day, I nearly had a meltdown at the realization that I would now have to return the new mouse and resume using the old mouse that may have been touched by Dirty Other People. It was very upsetting and nearly warranted leaving work for the day.

However, I have been taking small steps to control my instability. Company policy dictates that we must take our laptops home every single night in case of inclement weather, a rule that infuriates me when the weather is forecasted to be pleasantly warm and I’m still forced to drag my cinderblock of a laptop home with me. So yesterday, to spare myself a small fragment of misery, I locked my laptop in a file cabinet, packed my computer bag with an empty box of cereal to give it the appropriate “filled” look, and schlepped my feather-light bag to my car with thrilling ease.

I then spent the duration of the evening panicking that a freak blizzard would arrive and leave me stranded at home with no laptop, resulting in my instant termination.

Maybe I am not ready to part with my medication.