2004-09-27 - 5:26 p.m.
My bitter pill is swallowed, as the silence that I keep/It poisons me, I can't swim free, the river is too deep--"Ghost," Indigo Girls

So I am finally done with Effexor, but I cried for almost all of Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday and have stayed home from work today, Monday, in an attempt to recover.

Describing it risks it starting all over again, but that's never stopped me before.

This morning the radio got me off to a roaring start with "Better Man" by Pearl Jam. Then it played a new number with a chorus that goes, "Ah cain't stop lovin' you bay-ay-bee, but I cain't stop hating myself." Then I realized that I had nothing clean to wear, and since I was sneezing my ass off anyway, it would be okay to pack it in.

The last 37.5-mg pill was swallowed last Wednesday. Thursday I felt surprisingly ok. Friday I was on deadline and spent most of the time cursing at an IBM typewriter. Saturday I way overslept, and then my best friend called with some news, and I started crying as soon as I hung up and didn't stop for hours and hours.

I cried about everything dumb I had said or done in the last 20-odd years. I cried because the President is going to stay President. I cried because Mitt Romney is supporting the queer Republican running for State House in my district even though he can't say "gay" and "marriage" in the same sentence without needing a fresh set of spooky Mormon undergarments. I cried because the queer Republican called his earnest and idealistic opponent "part of a well-oiled machine." I cried because I can't get NPR on the radio in my room, and then I cried because my local station is shoddily run because it's part of the BU empire. And then I cried because reading the Phoenix always reminds me of how unhip I am, because none of the band names make sense anymore, which doesn't matter, I can't afford to go see them anyway. I cried for all the homework I have to do. I cried for all the trash and dirty dishes and just plain crap in my room. I cried for my clients and what they're in trouble for. I cried about the Church. And I cried most for Ajax. I missed everyone in the entire universe, and wanted to phone them all, but couldn't because they wouldn't be able to understand me anyway, for the sobbing, and then I cried for making everyone related to me worry.

I called Ken about seventeen times but he was gone all day, and then when he finally got there, I was such a bitch to him about not being home that it wouldn't've been fair to yell about the fact that he was out playing D&D. At least he didn't like it. So he says.

We got off the phone at 12:40, and then I tried to sleep, but at 1:15 I was sitting up in bed telling myself it's a good thing that the bridges within walking distance of my house aren't that high over the Charles. (Never mind that if I really wanted to do anything like that, Boston traffic is a psychotic's dream. Kee-rist.)

I sat there, hugging my knees, and it was like complete emotional paralysis. I kept telling myself that this wasn't really me, it was the goddamn drug, that I would get through this eventually. And then "Golden Slumbers" popped into my head, and I was toast. For those of you lucky enough to be Georges or Ringos or Johns instead of Pauls, that's the one that starts,

Once there was a way
T'get back home
Once there was a way
T'get back home
Sleep little darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby-ee

Yeah. Toast.

Now imagine that you've actually been to see Paul play that song, about a thousand years ago, when Linda was still alive and accompanying him on stage, and that you went to the show with your dad, who was crying his eyes out, too.

I must have sat there with the lights off for like an hour and a half, trying to sob quietly, which is not easy to do, before I found a sarong on the floor and took a shower and made some tea, and one of the cats came in to join me in here. And I finally got sleepy around 4 am.

I woke up early that morning, between 8:30 and 9, and called Ken, who was asleep, and Dad, who was awake, and read some paper, and called Mom, who listened to me wail for half an hour and talked me out of it for the other half.

I went to the store and bought a ton of stuff. I came home and got out of my bra and put everything away. Then I sat eating chocolate-covered Nutella wafers and watching Malcolm on the Tivo. (I have developed a huge crush on Malcolm's mom. This week would have been infinitely worse were it not for this show now being syndicated, because then I wouldn't get to see 6 eps a week.)

Then I got back into bed and read some more paper, and it was dark when I woke up.

I still feel sort of strange, physically, like when you've spent the night puking and are now weak with hunger but afraid to eat anything. Sort of shaky and weird. I've been typing in here, in my nightgown, for hours now. My roommates are going to start getting home soon.

So now I'm going to yank on some jeans and throw a load of wash together, and when I come up from the basement I will attempt to operate on the rotisseried chicken I bought yesterday.

Also: Last night I watched the first Law and Order without Jerry Orbach, with Dennis Farina, and it really blew chunks. Not because of Dennis Farina--although his character appears to be a mishmash of weird factors all thrown together--but because they spent the hour as Bush apologists, not only for the Iraq war, but for the use of torture on prisoners. "I'd put panties on a thousand Muslims if I thought it'd save one life." That's paraphrasing, but I'm not off by much. Mayor Mike was even in on the conspiracy.

I have no idea how they justify, in their little heads at NBC, making the Manhattan DA, ostensibly an elected official, a Republican of the Southern variety. Fred Thompson just does not bring anything to the show, and I'd be amazed if he's made it more popular with angry white dudes.

I have very much enjoyed the show as TV--although I have no idea what to make of the spinoff that's entirely about sex crimes, half involving the Church, which has easily got the best actors but which I can barely watch for nightmares--but I'm beginning to agree with one of my classmates that it's evil. It creates this idea that evidence gets tossed all the time because of bad searches or bad Mirandas or whatever--my Lord, those defense lawyers and their technicalities!--and that there are all sorts of judges out there sticking their necks out for bad guys and strenuously upholding the 4th Amendment. Lenny Briscoe rules, but I have the feeling Sip and Co. on ABC are probably a lot more accurate.

woogie - woo