It would be better, overall, if forgetting to take my meds meant I would lose all higher brain control and gibber until someone forced some Colazal down my throat.
This would illustrate and reinforce the notion that if I didn’t take the meds, “things” would deteriorate. But I’ve forgotten my meds for the last two days, and there isn’t any reinforcement. On the third day is when things start to get funny. My previous doctor said something about What is the point of taking medication at all if you’re not going to take it all the time? You’ll feel better if you take your meds, so take your meds. It would be better if she’d describe what the lack of medication actually did: ulcers begin to form and ooze, you begin to feel blood pooling in odd corners of your intestine, the dripping sounds like a coffee percolater, you start losing your appetite…but none of those are true. Funny, and not unknown to happen, but not from three days off meds.
The point – and I do not really have one – is that with all this internal shit going on, and the fact that it takes so long to manifest externally (for me), it’s hard not to pretend that I’m perfectly healthy, except for the zygote destruction and repressed quirks. For two days, that’s golden. And therefore, I’d rather the meds be completely necessary and unavoidable, because it would be easier to get used to taking a handful of them. Every. God. Damn. Morning. Oh – and Afternoon. And Most Evenings.
Even worse, I should really be used to this by now. But you know how it is. You start thinking about a random trip to New Zealand, or the Apocalypse* and you realize, shit, I have to stop and raid the fracking drugstore before I barricade myself in the pub, that’s gonna be really exhausting, and you maybe stop taking the meds for a day. Just because, you know, you should conserve. In case the zombies rise.
Or just because you want to pretend.
Incidentally, I have a much bigger problem with mental blockages than…well, you know, those ones. (And in my case, the analogy would be better served with a floodgate.) Like everyone else, I’d rather spend my last days flinching at unnamed adult pains, kicking my grandchildrens’ collective asses at checkers and walking to the mailbox – which will be up a quarter mile driveway – then drooling in a nursing home and wondering whether the lime-green jigglish stuff is edible. Yesterday this crossword clue stumped me:
46 across: Kevin of Field of Dreams
Ha. Ha. Ha. I am not kidding. Crapping my pants in public was less embarrassing. And I would know.
The real mental blockages could be coming from my repeated attempts to create a successful library evaluation plan, or transcribe my reference librarian interview. Summer is the absolute worst time to take classes, but today is even worse, because it’s THIS day, and Tea and I are going to the midnight party since we’re a couple of dorks with spoiler-death wishes, so I really should get this homework done. So I can spend all weekend reading a kid’s book in good conscience.
Okay, now I’m all excited again.