Catch-22

I’ve always been, well, not exactly a morning person, but someone who doesn’t sleep very much.

I wake up early by necessity, and have for a long time.  The alarm is set for a nice, round 6.  The job I had before this, dough cook at a pizza restaurant, required me to start at 7, and my alarm was even earlier.  I stay up because I get busy doing things, or because I am too anxious and upset to sleep.  There have been several incidents in my life where, rather than go to bed at a reasonable hour, knowing full well how early the alarm for the next morning was set, I stayed up far past midnight, or later, because I was simply too anxious to sleep.  Usually I would play video games until I was so tired I literally could not keep my eyes open.

On clonazepam, I am happy as anything, but I want to sleep all the time.

The 6 am alarm is now problematic.  Going to bed after ten is now problematic.

 

My appetite is awful.  Recently, after the event that has crystallised everything into Something Must Be Done, I went a week and a half hardly eating.  I simply couldn’t; I was afraid that forcing myself would make me vomit.  I would look at food and suffer a hideous contraction of my stomach.  At times I felt light-headed with hunger but it was an effort to eat because my stomach was so knotted I did not feel hungry at all.

This does not help the case of those who, not knowing exactly what’s going on with me right now, believe I have an eating disorder.  When you lose sixty-five pounds and then suffer some sort of mental breakdown at work, people tend to make connections.

And then the Wellbutrin, of course, didn’t make it better.  One of the side-effects of Wellbutrin is appetite suppression.  I was no longer fighting a stomach clenched with anxiety, but I simply didn’t feel hungry a lot of the time, either, and had to constantly remind myself to eat.  It would be better for a few days, and I would eat normally, and then I would have a Bad Day and be unable to eat and it would take me several days to get back into the swing of eating normally.

I’m no longer on the Wellbutrin, of course.

But this morning, I am looking at a piece of homemade honey-wheat bread, with chunky peanut butter.  I have a big mug of poor man’s mocha — coffee and hot chocolate mix.  It should be delicious; I can barely stomach it.  I have two pills to take: the clonazepam, and half of a tablet of Cipralex.

Cipralex is, of course, the long-term drug, the one I am waiting to work so that I don’t have to take clonazepam.

Cipralex must be taken with food, or it makes me very ill.

And I cannot get any food into me this morning.

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