MOAR WHINING!

tumblr_nkx7ovQvDL1rnma1do1_400…actually, first things first: I’m trying to give some books away today and tomorrow.  They’re all right here if you’re interested.  Still making you buy Balremesh and other stories, though.


It’s been a rough day all around; I’ve been trying to get the house beaten into shape so it doesn’t look like it’s been Lord of the Flies here all week while my wife’s been out of town.  I’m at the point where I’m going to shave the fucking dog bald; it’s not actually been all that hot a summer, but I think she’s actually developing allopecia as she ages– there is no excuse for the amount of shedding she’s been doing lately, and I’m worried that by the time my wife gets home tomorrow night it’s going to not only look like I never brushed her, it’s going to look like I never vacuumed either.  Is that a thing that happens to dogs?  I swear she’s never shedded remotely as much as she does now.

I actually got a fair amount done over the last couple of days, which is generally the standard by which I judge my weekends; the concept of “relaxation” being more or less completely foreign to me.  It was a Good Weekend if I got a lot of shit done.  It was not if I didn’t.  This weekend’s been accompanied by a bit more headfuckery than I’ve had to put up with in the year and a half or so since I stopped teaching, but I think that’s just because I feel like I’m under deadline pressure to make the place look like a half-capable adult lives here.  We’ll see.

There is also a distinct chance that I should seriously consider going back on my brain meds, but I’m trying to ignore that at the moment.

I caught the premiere episode of The Strain last night, which I found pretty compelling, so I’m watching the second right now.  I may or may not write a few paragraphs of fiction while I’m watching it but I’m not going to hold my breath about it.  After that, sleep, and hopefully no kicks in the kidneys tonight.

Wife’s back tomorrow night.  Alhamdollilah.

Fuck chemistry

nerve-cell-pulseIt’s been a Lexapro weekend.  As in I probably ought to be back on it.  This weekend (well, “weekend”) has been an utter shitshow; I’ve alternated useless-and-exhausted with unfocused, pointless rage for much of he last two days.  I just now managed to put away about two weeks worth of clothes and other than feeding the dog today that counts as the one thing I’ve managed to do that was good for anybody other than me.  And it only barely counts because I know my wife is tired of looking at my laundry in the bedroom all the time.

The house is a fucking mess.  It’d be nice if I was either a grown-up or on the right brain meds and could make myself do something about it.  Hell, it’d be nice if I knew which fucking one was the problem.

Don’t bother with sympathy, I’m not much in the mood for it.  Just let me rant.

Adventures in Lexapro, ch. 325

Jeremy-Renner
The title of the .gif claims this is Jeremy Renner. As I have never seen him smile at any time whatsoever, I have reason to doubt it.

You will not believe what just happened.  I woke up this morning– before my alarm went off, a full half hour before my alarm went off– and upon discovering, to my extreme surprise, that I was awake and refreshed, got out of bed and started my day.  It is ten minutes before the boy and I have to leave for school; he is dressed, I have had breakfast, the dog is fed and let out, the cat is fed, his backpack is packed, a spot of Monster Legends has been played, and I still have time for a short blog post.

I have been tired, 100% of the time, for a year.

Is this what life was supposed to be like before Lexapro?  Is it the new bed?  A combination of both?  What the hell is going on here?

May as well tell the whole world

tmi.png.htmlI thought, for reasons that will quickly become quite obvious, that maybe I ought to not go ahead and fill the Internet in on certain recent developments in my life.  But I’ve been pretty open about being on anxiety medication since they put me on it, and this is related to that, so to hell with it.  A warning: if you know me personally, it’s possible that you might not want to read this.  Certain of you I’m giving license to never ever stop mocking me again, which… eh.  It’ll be okay.

So, to get straight to the point: I’ve taken myself off of Lexapro.  If I were a more intelligent human I would probably be weaning myself off Lexapro, but I’m not an especially intelligent human and I was on a pretty low dose to begin with so I’m cold-turkeying the shit.  I had several reasons for making this decision.  One of the big ones was that I’m not in the environment (teaching) that led me to need Lexapro in the first place, so the direct cause of my anxiety issues is gone.  The biggest one, though?  It turns out that one of the rarer side effects of drugs like Lexapro is…

…this is the part where you stop reading, if you ever want to not think of this when you see me or talk to me again…

…urinary incontinence.

I have had, perhaps once a month in the past six months, what I will describe as a “bloop” and assume that your imagination can fill in the details.  They have always happened when I was asleep, always when I was on my back, and have always instantly awakened me, at which time I’ve cleaned myself up, swearing profusely under my breath, and gone back to sleep.  Last week, it happened twice in two days, and what was previously merely an excessively irritating thing that I was attributing to getting older abruptly had me Googling things like “prostate cancer.”  There’s never been an issue when I was awake, although I feel like I’ve been having to race to the bathroom more urgently in the last year than I had previously.

Now, it’s a rare side effect.  But I was seriously considering calling a doctor and scheduling a prostate exam, and if I can just go off a drug I already don’t want to be on rather than enduring a prostate exam, I think maybe I’ll try that first.(*)

So I did a couple things:  I stopped taking my Lexapro and also stopped drinking pop, since caffeine and sugar have also been linked to urinary incontinence.  Not only have I had no nocturnal issues since then, but I’ve slept through the night most of the nights since then.  It has been months since I slept through the night five nights in a row; waking up at 3:30 in the morning needing to take a piss five or six times a week was also something that I had previously attributed to getting older that may have been caused by the drugs.  It’s only been a week, mind you, and until last week this was not a thing that happened frequently, but the absence of further bloops and being able to sleep through the night have me thinking I’m probably on to something.

Negative side effects of stopping Lexapro have been minimal; I was weirdly dizzy today and that’s been about it.  I haven’t noticed the anxiety coming back, really; I did let everyone at work know that I was off my brain meds and that if they thought I was behaving strangely they needed to let me know right away.  Predictably, this has led to every fucking interaction I have with anyone now involving someone accusing me of being overly emotional, because the people I work with are caring and serious grown-ups.

(*) The word first means “first,” not “only,” just to be clear.  I have since discovered that they’re recommending annual prostate exams start at 40 now instead of 50, so I actually will be talking to my doctor about that soon, and I’m not as het up about the idea as most men seem to be.  I’ll tell you about it if it’s a funny story, but I don’t expect it to be a big deal.  Just be aware that I’m not ignoring it.

On Not Being Right and customers

Unknown.jpegOne of the obnoxious parts of mental illness, even the relatively benign and easily controllable mild anxiety that I’m afflicted with(*), is that it is occasionally difficult to tell whether you’re authentically experiencing your own emotions or not.  To wit, I had a deeply shitty day today.  I didn’t have a deeply shitty sales day– that was merely average– but a day where basically everybody seemed to be fucking with me.  And right now I’m seriously sitting here fucking gaslighting myself trying to figure out if I’m really allowed to be as pissed off about my day as I am or whether the fact that I’ve been going off the reservation and tinkering with my meds is altering how I react to things.  And the real bullshit?  There’s no way to know at all.  Maybe I really had a shitty day.  Maybe my head’s fucking with me.  Who knows?  I’m blogging.

Anyway.

My favorite customer today was yet another entry in the I Never Want to Talk About Delivery Again series.  Let’s be clear, and I know I’ve said this shit before: there is no such thing as free delivery in a furniture store.  You are either paying for your own delivery via a surcharge, in case people who don’t get their stuff delivered don’t pay for delivery and you know exactly how much you’re paying, or your delivery is rolled into the price of the furniture, meaning that everyone who buys anything pays for delivery and you don’t know how much you’re paying.  There is no free delivery.  There is only a delivery charge that they don’t tell you about.  And those places typically aren’t about to give you a discount if you don’t get your stuff delivered.  So everyone pays.

We charge for delivery.  There is both a floor and a ceiling to our delivery charge; it won’t go less than a certain amount and it won’t go over a certain amount, and within that range it’s pegged to a certain percentage of the value of the furniture.  Also, if you’re over a certain distance away there’s an extra surcharge based on how far away you are.  Because if you’re fifty fucking miles away you’d best be damn sure that you’re going to pay more than you will if you’re down the damn street.

Anyway.  That now feels like way too much lead-in for the story payoff, but fuck it; I wrote it and it’s on the screen and I’m not deleting it.  I had a woman get frothingly angry with me today– like, actual spittle flying out of her mouth– not because we charge for delivery, and not because we charge extra to deliver out to fucking Michigan City, which is nearly fifty goddamn miles away– but because we charge more if we have to deliver more.

She actually said the words “Who charges more if they’re delivering more?  I’ve never even heard of that!”  And, just in case I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly, she said it more than once, implying that she’s never mailed or ordered a package, even once, at any point in her entire life.

I dunno.  It doesn’t sound like much.  But she was seriously irrationally angry about the whole thing, and it was at a point in the day where I was well beyond giving a fuck, and I don’t like it when people say shit that makes no fucking sense at all.  So, there: a blog post.

(*) I always want to make it clear whenever I talk about my issues with anxiety: I’m talking about me, here, not you.  Mental illnesses are as YMMV as anything can get.  I will never argue with anyone, ever, who struggles with anxiety and would not use the phrase “relatively benign and easily controllable” to describe their problems.  That’s me.  I’m not talking about you.