Part of a weird, disconcerting, sometimes terrifying world

Facebook just reminded me that nine years ago I played King Triton in a big, splashy (ahem) production of The Little Mermaid and made my first appearance onstage on a wheeled platform with a Botticelli shell and nothing to hold on to for dear life.

Oh—and my doctor and I decided that playing a principal role in a show that involved being wheeled onstage on a small, Botticelli-shelled platform was the PERFECT time to wean myseof off the demon drug Cymbalta.

If you've never been on Cymbalta, I do not recommend starting. If you've ever stopped taking Cymbalta, you know that doing it in this context was just bonkers. I was always unsure of what exact direction I could find gravity. I was in a constant state of thick, memory-clouding fog. I got what everyone coming off of Cymbalta calls "brain zaps," which is the best attempt at a collective name for an impossible-to-describe colleciton of alarming things happening in my head.

And it didn't help that practically every entrance I made began with me angrily shouting ARIEL! and then struggling to remember what came next.

I barely felt present the entire run. You might say I was notter under the water. But you shouldn't. Nobody should ever say that.

Cymbalta withdrawal is a bitch. Bitch Kitty is a bitch.

Cymbalta withdrawal gives me brain zaps, which are like blackouts with extra dizziness and lip tingles and confusion and disorientation but no actual blacking out. Bitch Kitty gives me the come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy fakeout, which is like a real come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy invitation but with growling and hissing and swatting and running away as fast as her waddly soft warm tummy will allow but with no actual soft warm tummy petting.

 
Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps hit me then fade away then hit me then fade away until I'm exhausted. Bitch Kitty swats at me then runs away then swats at me then runs away until I'm tired of her bullshit.

 
Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps will eventually go away and I will dance on their grave. Bitch Kitty will eventually go away and I'll actually kinda miss her.

How to keep your friendly neighborhood pharmacy solvent:

I mean seriously. And I take just as many meds in the mornings as well. Granted, about a fourth of my daily pill pile—which is a totally awesome band name—is OTC stuff with purported powers to control the side effects of all this pharmacology. But none of any of it seems to be working for shit. I'm still shaky and chompy and chubby-tummied and chronically, relentlessly exhausted. I'm still struggling to claw my way out of deepening pits of depression on an almost weekly basis. The unnerving and sometimes terrifying symptoms of my Cymbalta withdrawal seem to be escalating. And I'm weaning myself off of Abilify next. BECAUSE NONE OF IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING. Despite my many plans to the contrary, I pretty much slept my way through this entire weekend. I didn't go to a play I had tickets for. I didn't help my brother-in-law paint his house. I didn't do any half-marathon training. I didn't go to our neighborhood block party. I didn't even take a fucking shower.

But I have hope. And the greatest support network a bipolar person could ever ask for. And the ability to sit back objectively and make fun of the absurd and ridiculous stuff. And the delusion that I can stubbornly will myself to get better. But not, unfortunately, the ability to swallow two daily handfuls of pills without violently gagging. And clearly I don't have the self-control—or maybe just the self-sufficiency—to shut up about it all on social media. Which, on some levels, makes all of you part of my support network too. Which I suspect may be my subconscious goal with all this whining. So sorry to drag you all into my mental drama here. But thanks for playing along. I'm going to sleep now. Which I'm really good at; I practiced all weekend.

Cymbalta withdrawal is a bitch. Bitch Kitty is a bitch.

Cymbalta withdrawal gives me brain zaps, which are like blackouts with extra dizziness and lip tingles and confusion and disorientation but no actual blacking out. Bitch Kitty gives me the come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy fakeout, which is like a real come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy invitation but with growling and hissing and swatting and running away as fast as her waddly soft warm tummy will allow but with no actual soft warm tummy petting.

 
Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps hit me then fade away then hit me then fade away until I'm exhausted. Bitch Kitty swats at me then runs away then swats at me then runs away until I'm tired of her bullshit.

Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps will eventually go away and I will dance on their grave. Bitch Kitty will eventually go away and I'll actually kinda miss her.

Today was day 10 of s l o w l y weaning me off Cymbalta ...

... the act of which gave me seizure-like blackout thingies when we did it rapidly last spring. I should be completely Cymbalta- (and seizure-like-blackout-thingie-) free by the beginning of October, at which time we start weaning me off of Abilify. Because I'm on five psychotropics right now, and while saying “psychotropics" is fun and all, five (plus my thyroid medication) is a bit much.

Every time we change my meds (I mean psychotropics!) I get my hopes up that THIS TIME will be the magic bullet and I'll finally stop sleeping through life/binge-buying shit I don't need/growing an enormous gut/hearing noises in the other room/deciding nobody likes me/shaking like a hoochie mama in a bathtub with a toaster. And every time, my symptoms seem to shift around a bit but never totally go away. So now instead of adjusting/introducing meds, we're taking them away entirely. And s l o w l y. But like everything related to psychotropics (there's that word again!), results (or complications) take time. And we have to map out when those results (or complications) might manifest themselves so they won't interfere with things like vacations, projects at work, family events, theater commitments and Disney half marathons. 

Speaking of which, the Disney half marathon I'm running is the first weekend in November, at which time who the heck knows where my meds (and my brain) will be. But once again, I choose to think that by then I'll be clear-headed and focused and energized and bedecked in my red running shorts with huge yellow buttons on the front and—aside from the aforementioned shorts—perfectly normal. Just like all of you magically wonderfully perfectly normal people. (You'd tell me if you weren't normal, right?)

Beware the Withdrawal Effects of Cymbalta

I've been sailing along for months and months on a cocktail of four bipolar meds and one thyroid med with only two problematic side effects: unceasingly shaky legs and all-but-debilitating chronic exhaustion. So my doctor decided to wean me off of Cymbalta over the last week. Which, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest decision to make at the confluence of tech week for one show, early rehearsals for a second show and the week before I start an exciting new job. Throw in a dreamy new boyfriend and a paternity suit with a traveling stripper and I'd be Maury Povich GOLD right now.

Anyway, I've been off and on more meds than I can count with zero noticeable side effects ever. Until today, when I started getting hit by wave after wave of what I can only try to describe as shivery hot carbonation under my skin. It's like the waves of nausea you get with the flu … only there's no nausea. Plus it's like the prickly head rush and the near blackouts you get when you stand up too fast … only it happens no matter if I'm sitting, standing or lying down. A little Googling of Cymbalta withdrawal tells us this is actually a common side effect, but I was never warned about it. And after a conversation with the on-call psych doctor and a trip to one of the only 24-hour Walgreens in Cedar Rapids, I'm now back on a lower dose of Cymbalta for the time being. So the shows and the job are saved. And if you're a potential dreamy new boyfriend, you know where to find me. I promise that the traveling stripper meant nothing to me.