Lesson one of re-discovering your happiness through synthetic means: when the manufacturer of your medication tells you in bold print that in the beginning you may have severely heightened anxiety, believe them. They are not fucking with you. It is in bold print for a reason.
Because I rock the party, I'm having a particularly heavy period in this time of adjusting to this new drug. It was much heavier than normal this morning, to the point that I bled through everything. In the bathroom I panicked, which was a wise move. Suddenly, I had tunnel vision, my ears were ringing, and I couldn't stand up. I managed to go up the stairs to the bedroom, smacking into walls and stair gates in the process. I made it to the bedroom, where I finally collapsed. I was holding a completely soaked maxi pad wrapped in toilet paper, which I managed to push under the bed so I wasn't found with it clutched in my hand. I could hear my Mom and The Dude ask if I was ok, but didn't have the energy or wherewithal to respond.
The Dude came in and stood over me calling my name. P also arrived to serve her primary purpose of poking me in the face and saying, "Whatchu doin' Mum? Whatchu doin' Mum?" The Dude helped me to the bed, and I groggily repeated, "I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick!" He ran into the kitchen and grabbed the fruit bowl (empty, for any of you fruit/vomit fetishists out there), but it was too late. Thankfully I hadn't eaten in awhile, so when I was sick all over myself and the bed there wasn't much cleanup required.
Now I'm laying in bed blogging about my first ever fainting episode. I'm pleased I could do it with such grace - collapsing in a heap of bloodied pyjamas, attempting to be covert with a used maxi pad, then ending the drama by throwing up on myself. You can say a lot about me, but damn if I ain't one classy broad.