So when we last left off, it was two years ago and I had just heard the news of my cousin’s death, and in a state of unstoppable SOBBING, wondered and worried (but not in any particular order): how I would compose myself enough so I could go to work and not seem like an insane person; once I did compose myself enough and not resemble an insane person, how I would ever be FUNNY enough (I was on a sitcom as a writer at the time), as not to get FIRED; how was I ever going to keep my relationship afloat when I refused to be near my BF when I was CRYING, yet could not stop crying and
How I was ever going to face my aunt, uncle and cousin at the funeral WITHOUT ripping a hole of grief and pain in me that I wondered would ever heal.
I NEEDED DRUGS AND I NEED THEM BAD.
My favorite anti-depressant commercial is the one where they tell you, “Depression Hurts.” No shit. Then the lady takes her drugs and goes from a crying mute, rocking herself in the corner to a happy, zany, peppy person who’s PLAYING WITH A KITTEN. It was a commercial that I often made fun of.
Now I want to be like that lady. I want to feel good enough to play with a kitten.
I NEEDED DRUGS AND I NEED THEM BAD.
The doctor was kind enough to give me some anti-depressants. But I wanted sleeping pills (I WANTED IT ALL). He was a smart doctor and not about to give a girl who hadn’t showered, hair matted, was dressed in what can only be described as Pajamas as Daywear and who had cried so much she was heaving hiccups SLEEP MEDS that could kill her.
Good move. But when I have my mind set to something, I get it done. I now had not been to sleep in 36 hours and I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take it because I couldn’t stand to be conscious that long, where I would have to play the tape of David’s murder over and over again in my head. I had to sleep, I felt off kilter and off balance and I knew going home for the funeral IT WOULD ONLY BE 100 times worse.
“Mom, you have to get me some sleeping pills.”
My Mom is a shrink. I know, it’s crazy.
Mom, “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“MOM, GET ME THOSE PILLS! I’M FREAKING OUT!”
Mom, “I can’t write my own daughter a prescription.”
“THEN FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN! I CAN’T COME HOME IF I CAN’T SLEEP. PLEASE, MOM!”
And so she did it. And I slept as soon as I got home and the next night and the next and the next.
And that began my two year odyssey of being addicted to prescription sleep medication.
