Cymbalta Chronicles, Vol. 2
Effing meds. Woke up at 3:50 am so nauseous I thought any moment I would spew from both ends. Have to get up at 5:00 and get ready to go to work. There's some research I have to do for a meeting this afternoon. I was planning to get in by 7:00 am and cram all that in before 1:30. Well, God and Cymbalta both laughed at those plans. After missing a couple days last week to go to court and fix my car, I can't in good conscience call my supervisor and tell her I'm not coming in because my happy pills are giving me the poopies.
I drag my a$$ to work and mainline coffee just to get the job done. At 12:30, I meet with my therapist who has never heard of Cymbalta either. She takes a look at the information that Dr. T left me, hand-scrawled instructions for taking the medicine and a photocopied chart that's supposed to explain how the medication works on certain neurotransmitters. My therapist thinks that since I told Dr. T that Wellbutrin hadn't worked that he wanted to try something different, perhaps more powerful. Wellbutrin works on dopamine (and norepinephrine to some extent) while Cymbalta works on serotonin and norepinephrine. So now, we have a rationalization but I wish Dr. T had taken the time to tell me this. Getting psychiatric treatment should not resemble a trip to Mickey D's. My therapist suggests that I called the McChiatrist, tell him about the nausea and the loss of sleep and see what he advises. We spend the rest of the hours bitching about court and my jerky soon-to-be-ex brother-in-law.
By 4:00, I've blown that popstand and race to the on-ramp for 495 to Northern Virginia. I get home in record time (almost an hour) and find that the plumbers came and gutted the bathtub/shower in the Master Bedroom after I'd called last weekend to reschedule. Effing eff. Of course, the plumbers don't listen to or acknowledge my sister's requests to reschedule. Instead they call the condo owner, who vetos my sister by telling the plumbers to go ahead, yells at her and tells her, 'this does not bode well for you renewing your lease'. Effing jerk. Like we'd want to renew a damn thing with him. He has no idea what my sister has been through in the last WEEK, much less the last five months since my brother-in-law left(and has stated that he doesn't care). He thinks we should be eternally grateful to pay inflated prices for a condo that he makes little effort to repair. On the first of the month he nags my sister about the rent, when contractually it is not late until 5:00 pm on the fourth. During the yearly condo inspection he tells my sister, 'You know I could sell this place for (insert beaucoup amount of $$$)'. He is, in short, a collossal a$$hole. I hope we can move once the lease is up and that he never gets another tenant after us. Yeah, I know it's unrealistic, sour grapes and all that, but he really is such a pr*ck. When my sister asks if he's thinking about selling, he says no. He loves to mindf*ck his us like this. Does he do this to all his tenants or just the black women in the middle of a painful, complicated divorce and custody battle?
Tried the Cymbalta again after dinner. Didn't get as sick this time, but I still didn't get much sleep. Dr. T said that it might make me drowsy and then I wouldn't need the Ambien he prescribed for me. No such luck. Read the new Harry Potter (so many typos in the first chapter!) until I fell into a stupor.