Since my seizure in early November 2016, I’ve been taken off Wellbutrin and put on Escitalopram with the promises that a) it’s just as effective in its much lower concentration and b) it comes with an energy boost.
LIES. All of it.
Maybe it works for some people, but it does neither of those things for me. I spend far more time lying in bed than I ever did on Wellbutrin and my energy? I don’t know where it is. I do know that I have none.
What I do have is an insatiable urge to crunch or chew on things. I’m not hungry at all but it’s like I’ve GOT to have something in my mouth. But the biggest thing I’ve noticed are the incredibly lucid, bizarre dreams I have every single night. It’s as if this energy I was promised has been rerouted to my brain so that I’m fully aware of all the kooky things my brain conjures up while I sleep.
Just for kicks, I decided to start logging them until the doc adjust my medication again, beginning now. If you’re a writer in need of writing prompts and these bizarro scenarios trigger those creative gears inside your talented head, please feel free to use them as writing prompts. I only ask that you send me a link to your work so I may read it! 🙂
1/28/17 – Winter. There is ice everywhere. Generally, people are happy and in good spirits, regardless that we can not stay up on two feet for more than a few moments at a time. A small animal (I can’t remember now if it was a cat) comes to me, demanding my attention. I follow it to a friend’s jeep. Said friend is nowhere in sight, but the animal is adamant that I do something. Whatever it needed me to do, I do and all is well. My friend returns and I tell him what happened and he laughs. A bus brings one child and we all send the kids to our little ice rink for some skating. Cousins I haven’t seen in years are there with their children. Friends who’ve moved to other parts of the country are there are well.
Somehow I end up on a red city bus with several other people but the driver is taking us the wrong direction. He isn’t listening to us. There is a small accident blocking the road but he doesn’t stop in time and plows through it – but no one is hurt because all the people move out of the way and the cars on the road were only toys. He finally stops when some of the passengers bombard him at the stop sign and while he is distracted, I step off the bus while we are still within walking distance with my baby, Levi. Others follow. An argument with the driver ensues and he yells that we need to follow the rules and pull the chain if we want to stop. I see three or four men switch instantly from their Muslim garb to plain old slacks and shirts once the bus driver is no longer ignorant of us. I am not threatened by them. Somehow I know they are on my side.
Returning to our original location (which, now that I think about it, I believe started out as my grandparents’ house), I enter a church with my boys to help my mom answer the pastor’s phone, but I slip inside the building and in falling, I knock over her ex-mother in law at the same time. I apologize, but she doesn’t seem angry. She seems to understand that there is nothing I could have done to avoid the situation.
I wait at the bottom of the stairs because I’m not sure which way my boys have gone. My dad follows a pastor out of another hallway and I hear him asking for help during this difficult time. He tells me that his wife quit her job because she keeps getting passed over for promotion by people who have been hired well after. This comes as a shock to me because she’s so good at and dedicated to her work. He says, “That’s why she’s been sitting in the shower for over an hour just meditating on it.” He says she’ll finish school and show them all.
Rescued from the crazy red bus driver we all return to the ice rink and reunite with those we’d accidentally left behind.
1/29/17 – I didn’t sit down to write about this one yesterday but I do remember a few elements. I came across an older woman who had moved into her barn because she and her husband were getting a divorce. It wasn’t an operational barn but rather a place she’d been storing things she’d collected. Most of them were antiques. Furniture, old farm equipment (I’m talking old-old), stuff like that. So this wasn’t all that weird, right?
It was fine until she told me to make guacamole in her tiny dog’s STOMACH and then just open her up and squeeze it out into the bowl. She ended up doing it because I couldn’t believe she was serious. Oh, the dog lived. She put her back together with a hot compress.
Don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at guacamole the same way again.
1/30/17 – Evacuation. Earthquakes. Everything is about to be underwater. HUGE flood/tsunami/biblical devastation coming. Escitalopram has a way of pulling you back into the same dream even if you happen to wake up in the middle of it and it just picks up where you left off. So I’d packed up my family and my three dogs and gotten them on board whatever safety ship we had been assigned to (I’m pretty sure they were giant boats we all had to get on before the water came). But I went back and was shopping for Oreos because WATER BE DAMNED I was not going to be stranded without Oreo cookies. My mom was there. We found Kimchi Cookies. Yes, you read that right. And I bought a box, too, because they looked amazing. They looked like those oatmeal cream pies but they were KIMCHI (hey, it’s my dream) and they were on sale for only $0.78. How could I pass up that deal?
Then I went back to our house to retrieve my two cats because even though I wasn’t bringing them along initially, I couldn’t leave them behind. I forget why we had left them. Some kind of rule, I think. We justified it with “they’re cats, they’ll survive just fine” but in the end, I didn’t trust that intuition. Of course going back into the house was dangerous because the earth beneath its foundation was unstable.
To Be Continued