When I said I'd be back "tomorrow," I obviously had some pretty high hopes for my weekend, none of which included spending the majority of it in a panicking panicked ball of panic.
And when I said I'd be back with "the funny," I was obviously on crack.
At some point last week, I began to suspect that my meds were not working. I was right. They failed in a spectacular fashion.
Insert your own damned clever crash-related metaphor here, for my brain is muddy.
I swing wildly between why-even-try-anymore-depressive lethargy and manic, holy-shit-I'm-going-to-have-a-seizure-or-heart-attack-or-tumor-like-thing-and-die panic attacks. I hyperventilate and tremble and then my legs give out and I curl up in the fetal position and stare into space for hours. I lock and relock doors. I pace and jitter and nervous tic and cry because my puppy is not eating enough and is going to die. Jason is going to get sick of babysitting his wife because he's afraid I'll hurt myself and leave me for someone healthy. Or at least someone who will put her clothes away and not cry about it, for the love of God.
Then there are moments where everything is fine. I make jokes and smile and remember to unplug the iron. But then It starts all over again.
I would definitely say that the meds are not working.
I'm at home now, counting the hours until I see my doctor again, dozing off in between sentences, praying that I'll have the strength to drag myself out of bed and out the door when the time comes.
Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow will be the day that I'll be back with the funny.