Like Sands Through The Hourglass

In light of recent developments, I have decided to wean myself off of Effexor. It is not a decision I made quickly and I have exhaustively researched the positives and the negatives and, for now, the good far outweighs the bad.

After reading several reports, I also found out that the withdrawals from the drug are horrendous, sometimes even requiring hospitalization. I read the list of symptoms with growing horror. "My God. This is great. Homicidal thoughts, drooling and mouth twitching. Super. In a couple of days, I'll be that guy from Slingblade."

With that in mind, I am taking the safest route, although it is the most laborious. Last night, I began counting grains in the capsules and each day, I will remove three more than the day before.

As I painstakingly pulled the capsule apart and began counting the tiny mood-altering, immune-system depleting granules of death, Chris walked in. "Whatcha doin', babe?"

"Oh, good. I need your help. Count these. But you cannot lose any."

He willingly helped and as we were both hunched over our tasks, tongues poking out and sweat beading our brow, Devon walked in.

"Hey, babe," I greeted him.

"Uh. Hey."

"I suppose you're wondering what we're doing."

"I really don't think I want to know."

"Well, money is short this year," I continued. "So, we're having to resort to selling drugs."

"Ok."

He turned to go and I stopped him long enough to explain what we were really doing. "It's disturbing to me that you didn't even question my explanation," I said.

"Nothing surprises me in this house," he answered.

"So, when you see me on the five o'clock news on an overpass with an uzi, wearing a party hat and screaming about the naked leprechauns, you won't require therapy?"

"I surpassed the boundaries of what therapy could ever do for me about two years ago."

"Right-o. Carry on."

Later that night, I was laying in bed while Chris was holed up in the closet (where he has been banished with his Mac and his Ebay addiction) and I was teetering on the edge of blissful sleep. A few seconds into the beginning of what seemed to be a promising dream (I still love you in my dreams, Matthew. YOU MAN WHORE) the overhead light came on and woke me up. Chris was nonchalantly adjusting his pillows while I glared. "Hey. Asshole."

He looked up, surprised. "Wha..?"

"I was SLEEPING. Eyes closed. Why'd you turn the light on? Rude. I wouldn't do that to you."

"It wouldn't bother me."

"Not the point! At all! Turn the light out. Gah."

He turned it out and climbed into bed. Now, Chris and I share different blankets and sheets. I'm not a cuddler. He is. I wrap up like a burrito. He uses his blanket like a toga. I use one pillow. He has eight. EIGHT. Sleeping with him is a nightly choreography of fluffing and adjusting and placing and stuffing and wrapping and HOLY FUCKING SHIT WOULD YOU JUST LAY STILL, ALREADY. After he finished with all of this, I felt movement close to my back. I sleepily protested. "No! No burrowing! I feel you burrowing, do not burrow!" He continued on with his hand until he found the opening in my blanket and, then inside, a warm spot on my ass to rest it, thereby letting in a breeze of cold air and ruining my perfect cocoon. He sighed in contentment and I ranted. "Asshole! Light turning on, mole-rat burrowing asshole! I should cut your hand off."

"I think someone needs their three grains of Effexor."

I think someone needs to give my husband a place to sleep.