OWW MY IMAGINARY BACON

I had high hopes for the drug, Lyrica. I took it for a total of two weeks. The first week I felt pretty good. The second week I started crying. Not just crying like my eyes were leaking, but crying as in sobbing and wailing in grief. I'm still not over it.

I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day.  She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned.  I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book.  YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT.  Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."

Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.

If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.

My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.