I never want to sleep again.
Okay, that’s a lie. How about I never want to sleep for 36 hours straight again.
What’s that, you say? Thirty-six hours? Oh, yes. I went to bed Monday night around 9:30pm and save a brief half an hour I woke up yesterday afternoon to eat a peanut butter sandwich, I slept until 8:30 this morning. That’s a lotta z’s.
Why so sleepy? I will tell you: medication! Hooray!
Last week wasn’t a good week for ol’ Erin and I got put on medication. I was starting to feel pretty a-okay Friday, until Dad had an incident which prompted me to go to Deshler to care for him until Saturday afternoon. Then the fun started all over again with another anxiety attack Monday. I went back to see the lovely physician assistant, who I’m sure by now is tired of my needy ass, and she gave me a new prescription to add to my regiment. It’s called hydroxizine and is a seemingly innocuous antihistamine but is also used for anxiety. I took one of these puppies Monday night and fast-forward 36 hours later, I am awake. Sweet fancy Moses.
I called her this morning and was all, “dude.” She was all, “dude. Let’s fix this shit.” And I was all, “dude. Yes.” So, now I am hopefully adjusted to function properly again.
I hope. I’d love to feel normal again. That’d be great. Right now, the sight of the bed makes me nauseous and I never want to sleep again as I said, but damn. Can you blame me? Fucking a.
As I type this, I do feel better, which makes me cautiously optimistic. I took what was probably the 8th best shower in my life so far, and I have a load of laundry going. Mundane tasks have never felt so wonderful to do.
I am grateful for this feeling. It’s been a while since I have felt like a human being.
I know I’ll continue to have good and bad days dealing with Dad, and that’s to be expected. I mean, how does one handle the impending death of a parent without breaking down a time or a dozen? I wish there was a guide book or something, or at least something that tells me what I’ve been going through the last week and a half is totally normal, and you’re just fine, woman…but there isn’t. We all deal with this kind of crap differently. My method seems to be losing my goddamn mind. Cool.
It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. That seems to be my new mantra these days, and I think I’m finally starting to believe that.
Or at least until my next meltdown, which I hope isn’t for a while.
Before I go, allow me to drop a public service announcement on your butts: for the love of all things, if you have any sort of depression or anxiety or lucky enough to have both, keep going even on the days you think you can’t. You can. It’s tough as fuck, but you/I can do it. Okay? Okay.
Goddamn John Green for ruining that. I can’t say it without being all “The Fault in Our Stars” now. Thanks a lot, Green. It’s like Smashmouth forever sullying “hey now!” without someone immediately saying, “you’re an all-star!” back at you. AND they ruined a perfectly good Monkees song, to boot. Fuckfaces.
Alright, I’m finished here. Here’s to better days. Much love.