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I have to imagine that from time to time everyone feels the need to lie very still upon the couch and watch a full day of Law & Order reruns while listening to the creak and moan of every muscle, every joint and every bone. And nap periodically. And complain inwardly when the call of nature forces them to stumble five steps to the bathroom.
However, I’d have to imagine that when most couch-clinging slothful folks bury their heads under blankets and peep out at the television, they do so because of a virus — not because the thought of engaging brain or body in any other sort of stimulation fills them with unreasonable lethargy.
Being filled with unreasonable lethargy is exactly where I’ve been for the past couple of months. It’s been building, and this past weekend it hit (I hope it hit) a crescendo of torpidity, wherein I could barely gather the interest to eat or bathe, much less perform any higher-order tasks such as writing. Or fucking.
Thank goodness it was a weekend the children were scheduled to be with their father. I had no one to care for but myself, and I did that very very poorly.
I slept in shockingly late. I woke from dreams of climbing endless hills with lead-heavy legs, collecting along the way handfuls of sparkly trinkets for my children. Heart pounding from dreamed exertion, I laid in bed for many dozens of minutes. Eventually I moved only because my back made it too painful to stay still.
Take a shower? Not likely. Get on fresh clothes? Why bother. Eat a decent breakfast, on a day when no little ones could divide my attention? Ha. Hahaha.
Instead I grabbed caffeine and a cup of ice, poured myself into the couch and spent the next several hours ignoring everything but Chris Noth’s face, which failed even then to inspire the usual degree of happy twittering between my legs. I could not work, nor clean, nor answer the phone, nor summon the energy to walk to the mailbox.
I was not sad. Instead I was completely flat, at least until insistent beeping from my IM program drew me to the computer, where talking to a friend finally drew out a few minutes of heavy tears. But after he left, I went back to lying inert on the couch, until sheer exhaustion sent me to bed.
This is not like me. This is not me. So I must question if I’m turning into the laziest fuck ever to draw breath, or if I’m due for a serious reconsideration of my beloved citalopram.
It happens, so they say. After a few years — and it’s been over five for me — the body stops responding, and the whole process of finding a drug that works starts anew.
I hate the thought. I hate the idea of coming off this drug and searching for another that will work as well. What if it takes months? What if it’s as painful as it was the first time through? What if nothing works?
Guess it doesn’t much matter. I can’t keep taking pills that are as effective as sugar. I can either drop them altogether (and spend the rest of my life half-comatose on the couch) or try to find something else that will screw my head on straight.



