Don't cry for me

So I made it through two and a half Evita performances over the weekend without even a hint of the grunting and twitching and wincing and eye rubbing that have been my constant companions on my current cocktail of bipolar meds. But they started to flare up in the second act of our closing show on Saturday night, and by the time I got to my car after the show I was a full-throttle circus clown of grunting and twitching and wincing and face touching and eye rolling and invisible gum chomping. So I regretfully skipped our cast party and came home to hide under the covers. Today at work I was thankfully a few clowns short of a full circus, but I compensated with hand tremors and a pronounced loss of dexterity in my fingers when I tried to open and close shoe boxes so I could write about them or press the button on my key fob to lock and unlock my car. Plus my face is now chronically red and raw from involuntarily rubbing the fuck out of it whether I'm asleep or awake. Plus my left ear has the on-and-off sensation that I've successfully driven a railroad spike in it. I'm frustrated to the point of never leaving the house again, but there are shows I want to be in and people I want to meet and uncling I want to do and acres of shoes I want to wear and maybe another marathon I want to tackle and family happiness I want to enjoy. And thanks to an after-hours call with my psychiatrist tonight, I have a new med to get my hopes up over. So I'm heading to bed with a new psychotropic joining my existing army of four and wondering which Jake I'll be in the morning. Good night to all of you who managed to slog completely through this endless manifesto. And thank you to everyone who calls or texts to see how I am. I may not have a coherent answer every time but your friendships mean the world to me.