I’ve been tapering down off Remeron since the Thursday before last. I think. Honestly, things are a blur. They’re even blurrier because I went cold turkey 73 hours ago. I never want to experience that first day and night again. I don’t want to hear about your experiences, either, unless they were mercifully short and easy. In this, at least, positive thinking is my best defense. I am taking this to such an extreme that I actually spent yesterday and today watching sitcoms and cheery little anime series.
I am only just becoming able to eat again. Mostly nosh. I’ve also been spiking low fevers–high water mark has been 99.3. I had a bit of a sore throat before I stopped the drug. Well, I’m known for my phenomenally bad timing. Only I would decide to do this a) during my period, b) on the first day of feeling “normal” at a reduced dose of 3.75 mg, and c) while I think I’m sick, too. In my defense, that last one didn’t become apparent until it was too late.
I broke apart on the second night, Sunday night. (Hour 25. I have them written on my legs.) I felt so bad that my animal-self took over. I screamed. I cried. I ran up the stairs, intent only on feeling better. My first thought was just a sliver of Remeron please and my second was won’t work, not fast enough. I’d love to say I’m one of those gung-ho detoxers, but the main reason I’ve come off Remeron in the first place is that it didn’t feel good anymore. In fact, it was sending my anxiety and panic disorder through the roof. So yes, my drive became relief. I wanted the panic to end, and it had to get worse before it got better. I’m still nervous. I’m still sweating. Then I wanted the pain to stop. All that second day, I hurt. I was hurting before, actually. It was bad enough Friday, still on that tiny bit of drug, that poor Sky could hardly touch me. Sunday felt like what was in my bones wanted out.
Sunday was the steepest drop in concentration, the first half-life: 20-40 hours going from 3.75 mg to 1.875. That is one huge frelling drop. In retrospect, yeah, I maybe should have halved the dose again and tried that for four days before quitting. Oops? Mainly, I wanted that crap out of my body. Still want. Today was .9 mg down to .45, give or take. Every day that passes means less of it, and once I’m down below .1mg, I am going to start titrating up on Celexa again. Then I can consider bringing my benzos back down. The one good thing about Friday’s sleep lab result was the recommendation that I take extra of the Klonopin. (Okay, and possibly the explanation that it isn’t necessarily my crappy sleep making me hurt. Ask me in private about the rest.) Everyone who has had to watch me do this has also all but force-fed me extra Ativan.
It worked. I can’t complain about that.
I’ve lost three pounds, not counting the water weight from my period. Eh, it’s negligible now. Six months ago, three pounds would have tipped the balance into “Okay, let’s talk about appetite stimulant drugs and possibly those disgusting shakes” territory. Now? Now my jeans just fit more comfortably. I also seem to have lost my ability to tell whether it’s too hot or too cold in a room. Sky will be relieved not to stay over this week, I think. I was draping cold cloths over my head and piling blankets on the rest of me.
wake up in the morning i shall
wake up and so shall you and i
wake up the sun is beautiful
and it is warming you and i
fragile as we lie
I keep waking up. I was, by the time I quit Remeron, pretty demoralized to the point where I was praying for some god to strike me down. None of them seem to have listened, so I guess I’m staying put. Living like that, though, and then living through worse on my way to better, that was only worth it because I know this will get better. I feel for people who are terminal and still putting their bodies through hell. That takes a kind of chutzpah I will never possess. I am strictly a make-me-comfortable kind of girl.
Speaking of people who are being made comfortable, my uncle’s dying has slowed somewhat. I guess relieving his pain and not flooding him with chemo has allowed him to rally a bit. Said it before, will say it again: screw cancer. Screw it with a chimney brush, preferably with metal bristles. Still not making any commitments until either I feel up to them or something happens in Florida. I’m just relieved I’ve got time to get strong again for my loved ones, and that Gene has time to say his goodbyes as he wishes. The kids and grandkids are down there, but they’ve been down there–they live down there–it’s unavoidable that they should see how this happens to a person. Maybe it will cure them of this peculiar “chemo until it kills you!” mentality I keep reading about. This, my distant relations, is what that philosophy yields. May you never find yourself in a position to regret such a belief. (Like flat on your back in bed.)
On that cheerful note, good night.