In Which the Cheese Almost Totally Slips Off My Cracker
I take Celexa so you don’t have to. At least that was the purpose of this blog, going back to the first real entry so many years ago. Since that date, I have never actually run out of pills, an event that finally happened somewhere in rural Virginia two days ago. Unable to reach my psychotherapist for a refill, I decided not to worry about it and wait until I got back to Brooklyn.
That’s almost three days, cold turkey, off the anti-depressant, and I am here to tell you IT AIN’T A GOOD IDEA. Apparently Celexa is water-soluble, meaning it starts its inevitable journey out of your body the second you swallow. Fully 25% of the medication is gone by the next day, meaning that you can have it flushed out of your system pretty quickly. Your brain, however, is not so quick to forget.
The second night off the drug, I woke up in a cold sweat because I had dreamed that Tessa and I had turned into al dente pasta. I could not move my arms or legs because they had the floppy consistency of wet durham wheat. I tried to keep the conversation afloat at breakfast with Maud Casey, but I kept getting distracted by the Wang Chung songs on the ambient speakers, and lost entire five-minute stretches of time while Maud and Tessa wondered why I was fidgeting like a 3-year-old on Almond Joys.
By the time we got back to our apartment in Brooklyn yesterday, I felt like my brain case had been stuffed with wool socks. I laughed, I cried, I explained things to the dog. When I would turn my head to answer a question, my brain’s perception was stuck where my head had just been, making the whole world off-sync like one of those shitty educational movies we had to watch in science class.
I just took my regular dose again, and normality has still not called my body home.
I just drifted off while writing that sentence and wiggled my foot for ten minutes.
I am off to sleep, perchance to dream, of fountains that spurt mustard, hats made of meat, and Wink Martindale.