dis is de time on schprokets ven ve goes de crazies.

I'm on drugs. Did I ever tell you that? Maybe I didn't. But yes, they're legal in this country and this state, and yes, I *really* need them. Except I'm not on them right now, and by THEM, I mean the ONE anti-crazy pill I'm supposed to be taking daily so that I don't have a replay of this.

The last time I got a prescription filled was right around HB's birthday, at the end of November. Yes, I know it's now February, but the pharmacy screwed up and gave me a whopping 100 pills instead of the 30 that my insurance covered. I probably should have returned them, but it was almost a month before I realized what had happened, and they'd probably have just thrown them out if I brought them back.

Karma's a bitch, though, and I'm getting mine. I ran out about four days ago. And I just didn't think about refilling. Because I'm superclever, that's why.

My brain is fuzzy. My heart is pounding in my throat and I have stress in me, so much stress in me that I feel like I'm a ziplock baggie full of stress. My shoulders are tight, my patience is thin, I am a twitchy mess. But for extra special fun, my brain fuzzy comes in waves, and just about the time my heart finds its place down in my chest cavity, in front of my lungs and behind my ribs, everything amps up again and the breathing and the heart and the brain and the dizzy and the crazy just start flying around like the birds in that Hitchcock film. You know, the one with all the flying birds. *That* one.

Yesterday I thought it was a combination of running around after Cat 2 and cleaning up his projectile vomit, and not having time for a meal before we left the house, and maybe too much caffeine. But even then? Those sorts of things don't usually reduce me to a shaking pile of crybaby.

I called the pharmacy. The phone-answerer said my insurance wasn't going to cover my meds. I couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up or pay cash. Also, I couldn't breathe, and fortunately it was just one of those Silly Little Health Insurance Things, but even so this steel body cast of bad body chemistry is keeping my brain and my lungs from playing ball on the same team.

And of course this would be the Tired-est Week of The Year for my short people, the week in which every request from a Tall Person would result in ear-splitting shrieking diatribes from any Short Person in the room, and for the record, there are FOUR of them, which adds up so quickly it's actually one of those exponential equations, but I'm not going to lay it all out for you because remember the fuzzy brain thing?

Yeah. About that.

I'm making some hot tea, putting on my pajamas, and watching a movie with The Mister, who says it's alright with him if they drug me for the rest of our life together.