Out The Door
Monday. Eleven thirty-eight, just out of the bath, tired but ready for the day. A good long night's sleep, head clear when I went to bed, foggy at the moment having taken the usual dose of pain medicines an hour back. Is this progress or is this not progress? Hard to tell, the day is young, the sun is shining and, although there's a chill in the air, it's a pretty good day after hearing how things have been going in rain soaked Seattle and Portland.
Later. Lunch at the usual breakfast place reading The Chronicle and The New York Times before getting on the bus and delivering the kitty cat photographs to Ms. V at the old office. Pick up some Prilosec (so many drugs, so many drugs), back on the bus, back now at the apartment, the sky grown cloudy with maybe some rain on the way. Life in the fast lane and it's only two in the afternoon.
I was thinking, coming back on the bus, some part of my recent symptoms could be the fact I've weaned myself from Zoloft and haven't had a taste in the last seven days (four hours, forty-two minutes, and twenty-seven seconds). The web suggests you do this slowly, go to a half dose, then a half dose every other day before going cold turkey and, although I went to the half dose for a while, I ran out of them altogether last week and simply stopped. Now the web doesn't list any physical symptoms (blood pressure fluctuations and the like), but it does list things like cold sweats, urges to slaughter your fellow citizens and suicide. No thoughts of suicide, no thoughts of slaughtering my fellow citizens (yet), some cold sweats, but that could be incipient heart failure and have nothing to do with coming down off Zoloft. But perhaps we digress.
How is the day going, now that it's almost gone and evening will soon arrive? OK, I think. Stirrings here, stirrings there, nothing so stirring that it will by itself will get me up off my butt and out the door.