You ever have one of those moments that are so scary and ridiculously dramatic, it makes you laugh hysterically in retrospect? Well, take that moment and shove it up your ass, because you’re about to be one up’d.It’s no secret, at least to people who either know or know of me, that the DSM and I are far from mutually exclusive. I’m not sure if I’m what most would call crazy, but sanity isn’t one of my strongest attributes, but you take the good, you take the bad, you take your meds, or you end up on top of a car screaming while naked, after hoping a barbed wire fence (a story for another time).
Currently, my medicine cabinet is one of the few that has more actual medicine in it than anything else. In order of importance we have Cymbalta, Lamictal, Adderall, Clonazepam, and Latuda. Sidenote: I’m pretty sure those are the names of the ladies, who work at the bank I go to in Brooklyn. Pay attention to Latuda, because that’s the important one for this incident. It’s an antipsychotic, which brings along with it a healthy dose of side affects, including, but not limited to: dizziness, Parkinson’s like symptoms, drowsiness, and weight gain. It also get’s all up in that dopamine, which means withdraws from it, can be a bitch, severe nausea, headaches, mood swings, all kinds of fun. It was these withdraws that prompted me to take the Latuda in the morning, even though it’s only supposed to be taken before bed. Apparently, they list warnings and procedures on pill bottles for a reason, because what happened next were not happy fun sunshine times.
I felt fine on my way to work, maybe a little drowsy, but that’s how I always am. Perpetually semi-sleepy is kind of my norm, but luckily I always work in coffee shops, so it never really becomes a problem, well, almost never.
After arriving, flirting with my cute co-worker, and going to the bank, I began to feel weak in the knees, not in the clichéd hottie weakness, although damn that girl is like cuteness incarnate. This was I need to sit down weakness, but I’m used to weird side effects, so I let adorable ass co-worker go home.
Now, here’s what you’ve all been waiting for. People start arriving and I begin to make some drinks. I drop a few things, but my latte art is on point, so I figure, I got this. Eventually, my words start to become slower, and instead of just dropping a few things, I’m dropping everything I touch, like shit I wasn’t even holding, some how fell to the ground. Basically, it was the end scene in Carrie, but with coffee filters, and cups, instead of dead teenagers and fire.
I rushed into damage control; well I slowly traversed into somewhat cleaning up things. I didn’t have any customers and I was alone on the shift, so I just leaned on everything and anything, that could support my weight, because standing was just not something I had on lock. This progressed into sitting Indian-style and just popping up whenever I heard the door open. Jack in the box customer service.
This is when we hit Operation Dumbo Drop. I was back to leaning, and the last customers left, so I contemplated how long I would have to stay propped up. Then I went down, not peaceful lay me to sleep down, but Mortal Kombat, Lui Kang, Bruce Lee, sweep kick, down. Wataaaah, floor.
At this point, it was time to deliberate, look at my options, try to get a plan going. I could just live on the floor from then on, I could roll myself out of the door and down Allen St. or I could try to stand up. Oddly, option 3 turned out to be the worst choice, because as I tried to lift myself up, I went back down. This time I hit the trashcan, and caught some used coffee grounds on the way.
I start crying, like middle aged actress at the daytime Emmy’s crying. I curled up and cuddled around the metal trashcan, kept crying and eventually, called mommy, while debating to call 9-11. After some maternal coaching, I made it to the door and locked it, so I could be hysterical in peace. I also called my boss, who had no knowledge of the mess that was being made. We were able to get a replacement in, and I was able to stumble home, where I slept for pretty much forever.
The next day, I went to work hesitant, but better, at least I had my moment alone, and could just explain it away some how. Around this point, I remembered that cameras and CCTV were a thing, something that didn’t fully register to me until my boss came in with some tissues, as a joke, offering them to me whilst saying only “I have no words.”
This has been the first edition to a new column by the lovable doofus on all of the aforementioned drugs, Cameron Patton.