One week into tapering off Savella, which would not have been possible save for my paranoid hoarding of medicines I’m prescribed, death is not yet preferable but an ax would be. Or dismemberment by train. I am disjointed as it is, a slow drip of water sieved out of noodles, legs that periodically go missing, arms I can find, but don’t want to, because there is an ache deep in my shoulders and armpits like excavation gone awry. A long probing finger wiggles for purchase behind my breastbone, poking me tachycardic, 137 bpm at rest. Side effects. If there is nothing good in the world any more, I’m supposed to remember that’s a side effect, too.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. The fall semester approaches. I’m struggling to wrap up summer grading, and plan fall classes, and wrap up writing projects, and make any progress at all on a dissertation that seems increasingly impossible, and I have to shunt all of that to the side because I’m going off a medication that lessened my pain and fatigue and helped restore me to a semblance of who I am, not because I want to, but because Trump’s rhetoric about destabilizing insurance markets has finally struck me with tangible, bodily consequence. My formulary dropped it. I’m priced out. I don’t have a choice.
My doctor and I agree going off the drug is the best course of action for now, but the taper makes me upset and stupid, the idea of experimenting with drug doses and new cocktails makes me upset and stupid, and I don’t know why I bother to think or write about it, or if in this state, or as it gets worse, I’ll retain the ability to think or write at all.