I am too young for night sweats.
I am too awake, too tired, too cold, too not asleep.
I am too wet.
Side effects catch up with me the way a defensive player catches up with an offense that has finally broken through the line and sped toward the goal.
One of the side effects of one of my medications is profuse sweating. I am lucky because this particular side effect only happens when I sleep--some people spend their whole day dripping perspiration. Imagine managing Major Depressive Order--feeling like people are constantly judging you and deciding for the prosecution--and walking around dripping with sweat all day.
It's not even like my body has the decency to sweat from the usual suspects, either. I think if it were just, say, my armpits I could sleep through it. No. It's my pores. Pretty much everything but the soles of my feet.
I wake up cold because of the water. I try moving out of it, but there's no where to hide in a queen bed shared.
I put on dry pajamas, or move the sheets or my whole self and wait for California dry air to do its work. It takes too long and I am sleepy and scrunched up and covered in throw blankets I stole from the couch because I want to be in the bed when it is dry again.
I want to be asleep.
If I could just sit and wait, my chances of returning to sleep might improve. But I know if I just sit my mind will start its private relay race, so I type because at least if I am writing I am productive and pouring out my words into a bucket instead of letting them seep and drip and sweat a new sweat.
I can type with my eyes closed. Thank God.
For a while, the Effexor was working. It started in the hospital, so slow on the uptake, monitored, and then ever since living here, ever since sometime around Easter 2006 it's been two giant brownish-orange-burnt-umber capsules each morning in the Cocktail of My Livingness. Now the slow decline, the side effect dodging decline, to escape the side effect of water water everywhere nor any drop to drink.