I’m now on 20 granules of Effexor. That’s 7.5 mg—one-fifth of the eensy “starter dosage” I had been on for a year. I mean, I’m guessing it’s 7.5; each globulette is a different size, so for all I know I’m hitting my poor brain with a new dosage each day. Nonetheless, I forge ahead, carefully counting out the bouncy little drug-nubbins as they scatter hither and yon. I pretend I’m a scientist!
I’m feeling vaguely achy and nauseated, but I can live with it. The real problem right now is that I am as emotionally fragile as I have ever been in my life, and that’s saying a lot. On a good day, I’m overly sensitive. Me, I cry a lot. I’ve cried everywhere you really don’t want to cry; at dinner parties, in front of my boss. On a first date. What can I say! I’m a crier!
But these past few days—yeeuuulff. Whatever lightweight emotional armor I ever had has now been sloughed off. I’m crying at commercials. I sobbed watching VH-1’s “I Love the ‘80s.” I choked up when Henry cried because he couldn’t find his good Stormtrooper. I wept at about 30 different comments uttered by my baffled husband. My face is all puffy.
I’m not feeling sad, really. It’s more like I have these tiny buckets right behind my eyes, and they’re perched on two rickety stools, and there’s an even tinier, grumpy gnome storming around the stools, occasionally kicking them and sloshing some water out through my eyes all over my face.
So: I may be weepy, but I’m still capable of inventing a breathtaking analogy. Art triumphs over despair yet again. Huzzah!