...so we upped your dosage across the board and gave you some new stuff, so you could take pills with your pills.
The original was funnier. ("Yo dawg, we heard you like procs, so we put crit in your crit so you can proc while you proc.") But you can't fault a girl for trying.
Holy fucking what the fuck, today was a shitfest. The girlfriend and I got kicked out of our living room at like three because our couch surfers wanted to sleep. We get upstairs and I make the mistake of bringing up our Warlords of Draenor raid comp, which sparks a discussion on whether or not I'll be able to handle progression tanking with my anxiety issues (I've only ever healed progression). Eventually, we fall asleep, only to hear screaming coming from downstairs an hour or two later. Me being me, my first thought isn't "Oh god, I hope everything's okay" or "I should get the sledgehammer and sort this shit out." No, it's "make it stop make it stop make it stop" and I unceremoniously bury my face in my girlfriend's armpit with the blankets over my head. Which I then threw off, because claustrophobic. (I am a hot fucking mess, now that I read this shit. Wow.)
So there we are, laying in bed, whispering about what could be going on downstairs, and all we can make out is "I DON'T PUT THINGS IN MY MOUTH!" from our fem-surfer. My first thought was "what did he do, put a Hotwheels in her mouth? Where'd he get a Hotwheels?" But what came out was more like "so... surprise balls in your mouth didn't go over as well as anticipated?" The shouting continues, and between the noise and my hyperventilating the girlfriend can't get back to sleep- so she does what any decent friend would do. She goes down to investigate.
Seven AM. Both couch surfers crying. Shouting. I'm curled up in a ball on the bed hugging my pillow like it's Alan Grant and it's going to leave me in the path of a ravening tyrannosaur. And then my girlfriend comes back upstairs and goes "you were right." Dead silence.
"What?" I ask, wondering if maybe my ears are clogged with self-loathing.
"You were right. I'm not sure who started what, but he woke up with his cock in her mouth and she woke up with-"
"Stop. I don't wanna hurl all over the bed and I can't take the stomach stuff without food, and that'll just screw up all the meds for the day."
Paraphrasing, of course. No way in hell am I that coherent when I first wake up. I improved the prose for entertainment's sake.
Eight AM. Fall asleep on the love seat. Eight thirty, get dragged back up to bed. Nine AM, phone rings. Shaping up to be a greaaaaat day. I almost screened the call, but then I noticed it was from a company I'd recently applied to. Shit. Now I not only have to be coherent, but polite and charismatic. After alllllll that shit this morning. And I have to go to the doctor in an hour, and... Fuck it.
"Hello?" Short version: apparently in small doses I can pull some awesome phone skills out of my ass, and I scored an interview. For ass-o'clock in the morning tomorrow. Which in five minutes will be today. (From when I'm writing this, dipshit, not from when you're reading it. Jeez.)
TL/DR version: I got pretty much no sleep, and had to go to the doctor's office. They made me wait for an hour, kicking my legs over the side of the exam table with the girlfriend watching some sappy ABC Family show or other on her phone (in her past life she was part of the Inquisition, I swear), which is pretty much a recipe for more ulcers. I kept reading over my medical leave papers, wondering how in hell they were supposed to make these things apply to a behavioral health issue when all it really seems to care about is if I have ten fingers, ten toes, and a fucking pulse. Then I started worrying about losing the job I'm trying desperately not to go back to (explain that one to me, please, someone), and somehow THAT segued into wondering if perhaps my doctor was down the hall delivering a baby or something, or if talking with her annoying office staff was really that much more interesting than unbreaking my everything.
And then the doctor actually came in and I had to find some way to make "my head is fucked up, my stomach is fucked up, I scare myself, and I want off the fucking roller coaster" something that she could diagnose and treat. Which is when the B word got dropped, and then the mood stabilizers came into the equation (which is really just a euphemism for anti-psychotics, I learned. Thank you, wikipedia), and I pretty much started freaking out all over again. On the inside. On the outside I'm pretty sure I just looked like a kicked puppy. Or maybe a kid who just got told she can't get the second My Little Pony if she wants to stop at McD's on the way home from the doctor to get a happy meal.
Jump forward like ten hours, because you really don't give a shit about how I pouted after being pouted at for running Lich King dungeons for money, or how much I just wanted to slap the shit out of the fem-surfer because seriously? If you don't want to do something, don't do it. If you're going to do it anyway, I don't fucking want to hear about it. (Pot, kettle. Sup?) Or the not-so-subtle feelings of butthurt when the girlfriend went out to dinner with her best friend with whom absolutely nothing untoward will happen. I drowned that shit in cherry doctor pepper and Stouffer's mac and cheese.
So it's like half an hour before the pharmacy closes, and I finally decide to get up off my ass and go pick up the scrips. I get there, for the first time in a couple of weeks NOT freaking out in the car the whole time (yay me! Maybe I'm over the feeling of impeding car wreck?), make a beeline for the pharm counter, and give the usual introduction. "Name, birthday, pickup." I'm getting a little too good at this, after three months. -.- The lady stares at the screen for a couple minutes, looks confused, gets one bag off the rack, and looks more confused. Disappears into the back, comes back even MORE confused. (At this point, I'm wondering if she was having to formulate the stuff right then and there, hibachi style.)
Turns out, my delightfully overpriced insurance doesn't cover Seroquel. Seriously? The shit's generic now. I checked. (Again, thank you, Wikipedia.) So now there's some arcane ritual my doctor has to do, which I can only assume involves a whole lot of pot and beer, and I'm back in line for the roller coaster. Fun times. Only totally not at all.
A few days ago (abrupt transitions ftw) I requested a small mountain of books on meditation and mood-control techniques from the library. Today, on the heels of my hurry up and wait doctor's appointment, I added a few books on bipolar (there's one on bipolar II, which kind of made me happy) to the list. I can only imagine what those people are going to be talking about when they process the requests. I mean, when I worked at the library we tracked people's divorces, college searches, cancer struggles... all through their hold lists. They're probably going to be like "Meditation, Bipolar, and...high fantasy? There we go. Probably thinks she's an elf or something."
Which is lies and slander.
I'm a fucking half-orc. Get it right.
Hopefully tomorrow will bring some good news. Then I'll be able to stop freaking out about how to tell them I'm not coming back without using the words "fuck you" or mailing in a case of revenge bears with a note that says "because you cared."
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