I am coming off Lyrica. Slowly. Off a tiny, tiny bit. And my brain is so fried, I can’t promise this will make sense. But I have to write this. I have to remember that when I am like this, when my brain refuses to find words at all and I can’t remember to put on the sock in my hand, that I still am.
Isn’t that a funny thing? That I need to do this so I know I am? And not even right now, because right now I am moving my fingers over the keyboard in teh blind hope ‘muscle memory’ will do this for me. That it will take the thoughts and feelings and put them out in ways that make sense. Ways that I can’t say, because at the moment I don’t think I can make much of a coherent conversation. I have lost nouns. I called hairbrush ‘the thing with the pointy bits that makes the icky tangle things go away’. My partner gave me the hairbrush and I smiled up at him like an exhausted child home from a day at the zoo.
Or I might not have. My brain could have made that whole thing up. I don’t know. It could have made up that we went to the market this morning and I didn’t desperately crave donuts. It could have put a pretty little story in there, and I can’t tell the difference between that and anything else. Because my brain is trying to work out what to do without one less little pill of Lyrica.
I only had four. Four little white pills, two twice a day, and they were meant to make the pain stop. They were meant to make breathing okay. I think they did. But the put holws in my brain and I don’t know if I can fill them up again. I don’t know if I can stop the rest of my brain from falling into those holes, like those horrible sinkholes that appear and devour cars and roads and houses and suburbs. That last one might be a movie. I don’t know.
I am taking three little pills. Two, then one, and then the Endep for bed. And I think it’s going to make me better, coming off the little white pills. The doctors and psychologists and physios at the hospital who are so eager for me to do the pain course think so. They would know. They’ve got decades of research, and they’ve supervised the course numerous times. They would know. I think I forgot to tell them things. But what those things were are where the holes are, and I have no way of getting them back.
It’s July. The second. It’s Camp Nanowrimo. I love Camp. I wanted to write today. But I couldn’t remember the project, and I looked it up, and then I lost my pen, and something else happened. And I haven’t written words. Not ones on the story. I don’t remember the story. I know I put it up somewhere. It was a challenge. A push. I mean, not a big one. I was using for a purpose, this July Camp story. I used it to test something, but I don’t remember what. That’s in a hole too.
And at the bottom of my ribcage, the spots the doctors and physios called ‘trigger points’ tingle. Like the edges of the water when you drop in an Aspro-Clear. It starts off as nothing, just a little distortion on the surface. But you know more is coming. In that case, you want more to come because you can’t drink it until the whole lot is dissolved. But I will take the little blue Endep and the little yellow Endep, and they will stop it tingling.
They stop a lot of things, the little Endep pills. But the doctors aren’t worried about them yet. One drug at a time. One little white pill at a time. Check ins. And I will take notes. If I remember. I will take notes so I can give the doctors what they need. I don’t know what that is, but if I write things down, maybe it will help. Or maybe the things that help will be in those Lyrica pit-traps, so far into the blackness I can’t see them, so deep no rope will reach. Maybe that’s okay too.
Because I’m still here. Moments out of time, brief and sparkling clarity, starlight on the country-dark night sky. But here. That counts. You can learn a lot from that, right?