Withdrawal

Of course, I expected the mental push/pull.  I was well aware this would happen, and not all too worried, since I’ve spent most of my adult life being batty and not being medicated for it.  I did not expect to be physically derailed.  My level of empathy for heroin addicts has increased.  While a mere fraction of what a heroin addict goes through, this is what the withdrawal side effects of this drug feels like (numerous sites say withdrawals from this medication mimic that of opiate withdrawals, fun!).

I couldn’t eat.  Way too nauseous to eat food, but of course you have to eat, which would make me feel better for twenty minutes, and then I’d feel a whole lot worse, and my body wanted to reject any nutrition with gagging, and stomach pains.  Common withdrawal symptoms: Nausea, vomiting, insomnia, shakes, sweating, mania, suicidal thoughts.  I feel too dizzy to do anything.  Especially eat.  I have no desire to eat.  I can’t sleep well, either, so I’m just laying in bed, telling myself, you just gotta get through it, Lori.  You’re going to be fine, you just have to get through it.

I had a show in Connecticut, almost three hours away, which I was very much looking forward to.  The show went great and for the half hour I was on stage, I felt alright.  But I was still so dizzy, it was impossible to enjoy it.  Then, two shows the following night on Long Island (which were great), and the adrenaline of a good set gifted me with a temporary respite from being light-headed.

Not laying down felt kind of like this (all day, for several days):

For three nights, I’d wake up with shakes.  LIKE A FUCKING JUNKY.  Hugging my body, which seemed so much frailer and tinier than before, I just tremble, cursing, but never crying.  Not once did I cry (which I feel like is some sort of personal victory, not sure why, I just like to be winning at convincing myself I’m an alpha).  I just mumbled, “this is fucking bullshit,” while clenching my teeth until that shit would subside.  There’s nothing else to do.  Just have to wait it out.  At some point, I was cursing at the this little spider who was spinning a web at the base of my lamp.  I think, too, I was deliriously laughing one night at the very idea of how much I looked and felt like a crack head, despite the pain.  Writhing in pain while laughing hysterically is either a testament to my great sense of humor or that I’m a complete lunatic.

After the third night of shakes, my muscles are actually sore.  I’m reading up on websites of people will their withdrawals from the same drug; “worst thing ever,” “took a week off work,” “vomiting all the time.”  Days to weeks.  TO WEEKS?  WEEKS? No, no, no, no, no.  No.  I can’t do this for weeks.  I have things to do.  I have ideas in my head that need to put on paper.  I can’t work like this.

Pretty accurate:

Getting out of bed and going to work was even more challenging than usual.  I’m part time, and I can’t miss, because then I don’t get paid, and I barely get by, so I don’t really have the luxury of calling in sick.  I have to tough it out.  It will be fine, I tell myself.  You are fine, you just have to plow through it.

Now, I’m excessively smoking weed.  It’s the only temporary escape from the vertigo, and I can eat lightly after smoking.  At night, I continuously smoke in bed.  Eventually I’ll pass out.  Do not judge me.  It’s the only thing that really helps.

My confidants of the temporary hell I was going through were just a couple people who offered help, but there’s nothing they can do.  There’s nothing I really want to do except punch holes in my walls because I’m so agitated from spinning.  But that won’t help.  Don’t do that, I tell myself.  Nothing to do but wait till it’s over.  I am proud of not putting my crazy on other people.  This is why most think I’m pretty sane.  Rarely will I allow others to see me when I’m anything but logical.  But I’ll be batshit insane and yell at a spider while my muscles are convulsing.  But I’m okay, really (just don’t talk to that spider).

The fourth night, I’m no longer shaking (thank goodness).  Running helps.  I feel fine when I run, and for maybe an hour after.  But I have to be careful.  My caloric intake is low, and I’m already down weight.  My abs look fucking amazing.  You should see them.  There is nothing I’m looking forward to more than having my appetite back.  I’m going out (I rarely eat in restaurants because I’m very broke, but I’m going someplace great) and I’m going to eat so much food.  I can’t wait.  Boy, do I regret not taking before and after pictures of my now shredded abs from shaking and not eating.

The irony is some of my favorite movies and books are about drug addicts, so I’m well read on withdrawals.  Now, for the first time, I really know how goddamn awful it is.  It’s getting better, I tell myself, the worst part is already over.  I can’t do this another day.  Yes.  Yes, you can.  Ride it out.  Caught in a rip tide.  Soon, you will be released.  There were many times during the week I thought it was over, only to be suddenly swept away by spinning again.  This is written down in hopes that I’ve learned something.  Truth is, I tend to make the same mistakes twice.

By the fifth day, I’m so relieved to not be plagued by nausea for a few hours, I feel almost euphoric.  Like getting off the Gravitron at a carnival when you’re a kid.  Maybe the thrill of that ride is not the ride at all?  Maybe it’s when it’s over.  It feels great.  Too great, maybe?  Wasn’t that another common side effect?  Mania?  Then there’s that question that gnaws… the one I don’t like to acknowledge.  Is happiness real?

Puzzle me this, jerk off (this is how I talk to myself, and how I prefer to be talked to)…  If we’re going to play this game, consider this: was the waking up with spins, real?  Getting sick from food, was that real?  When you were quivering in your sheets, was that fucking real? 

Yes, unfortunately. It was very real.

Then happiness is real, too.  Don’t go down that rabbit hole.  You already know how that ends.