Blame it on the Meds

On Wednesday my therapist told me that I HAD to get out of my house. Go for a ride or something - ANYTHING, just get out. Even if it was just to walk around the block.

And my New and Improved Dope Dealer (i.e., my addictionologist who manages my crazy meds) did some fancy footwork; he doubled this, eliminated that, and added the other. I was supposed to stay home from work until Monday, when I should be "feeling better," (euphemism for Stabilized).

But yesterday, about an hour after I took the myriad potions, elixirs, capsules, and tablets- I decided that my depression was definitely gone and my throat infection was probably improving.

So, naturally, I went camping.

Yes, that's right. I packed up my sleeping bag, lounge chair, floaties, king sized tent, miscellaneous gear, several backpacks and sundry ice chests and hit the road. Never mind that I didn't really know where I was headed. Never mind I was on new medication. Never mind I was all alone (well, I had canine companionship). Never mind I was as high as a kite. Never mind It was a Thursday morning!

I ended up pitching camp at Blanco State Park. After some wierd wierd experiences involving park rangers, locksmiths, and a 250-pound woman on a Harley Trike with "Phat Broad" painted across the back, I tossed and turned feverishly all night in my family-sized tent.

I awoke once and for all at 6:00 this morning with my dog standing on my head (where he had been standing effectively all night), one nostril running, one nostril stopped solid, head pounding, mouth dry as a bone from breathing through it, and throat on fire. I laid there staring at the half moon suspended high above my tent in the early morning sky and wondering what it God's Name Had Come Over Me and how long was it going to take me to pack up all this shit and get home.