I wake up because I really have to pee. Sliding out of my bed, I sneak past my roommate and into the bathroom. I'm really glad I woke up to pee. I always do, but not being able to wake up from deep sleep to pee is a symptom of frontal lobe abnormality, a symptom of maladaptive social behavior: antisocial. It's funny how so many people use that word incorrectly; the words they mean to use are 'social anxiety' when they say antisocial, because antisocial is the psychiatric and correct term for psychopathy.
Sociopathy. I'm glad I can feel remorse and guilt. I'm glad I care about other people and know that they have personal boundaries. I think the antisocial commit something like sixty percent of crimes across the globe. It dawns on me now that these are sleepy thoughts. The kind of sleepy thoughts psychiatry premed give you. I am barely awake after all and I have now stood over the toilet for a good minute and I've yet to pee. I can't get it out. This sucks.
I go back to my side of the dorm in the dark, careful not to wake my roommate, who's snoring loudly. He should get his sleep apnea checked out; I'm a little worried for him. This is when I notice that someone is curled up in my bed.
I know I locked the door, I don't understand how someone got there. Of course, knowing it has to be someone from my hall maybe playing a joke, I go to see who is sleeping in my bed.
It's me. My eyes closed, my eyeballs rolling around underneath the lids in fast and jerky motions. REM. I'm watching myself sleep. How do I get back in? How did I get out in the first place? I touch the physical-sleeping me's arm
and I jolt awake, gasping in surprise, the fast intake of air drying my throat. I swear I can still feel someone grabbing my arm, but now I'm back in my bed and my roommate is still snoring loudly and my heart is still going a mile a minute.
This fucking mirtazapine man... I'm glad it works, but my shrink wasn't kidding when he said it'll give me some weird fucking dreams...
Jesus Christ.
In the middle ages, the Church would have likely deemed me possessed by demons and performed exorcisms on me. A demon would be the cause of never leaving my bed. Beelzebub, immortal, is the reason I no longer have the will to consume, not even my favorite foods. The self-inflicted cuts are the work of Satan. Funny enough, the old man or woman who would have given me the root of Saint John's wort to chew on, a cure for my true ailment-would have been burnt at the stake for being one of the cunning folk; a practitioner of 'white magic', aka herbal remedies.
Farther back, I would have an imbalance of one of the humours. Too much black bile from my liver. The vaporous melancholy that makes me morose and bleak, keeps me from sleep, and makes me sallow; a simple imbalance of the bodily fluids.
Parallel, today I have an imbalance of brain chemicals. Too little serotonin, too little norepinephrine, too little dopamine, too much monoamine oxidase, too many synapses reuptaking, too many medications to fix it. Mirtazapine is the medication I've been given, and it does work.
The first few days, I ate nonstop. Well, nonstop in that every time I awoke from the extremely powerful mirtazapine induced slumber I ate about three donuts and twenty chicken McNuggets, if I could get them. Now, all that's calm down and I feel the best I've felt in years. But last night fucked me up. I've been on a thirty milligram dose for two months now, and I have had a few very vivid dreams, but nothing remarkable or anything like an out of body experience until now.
I called my shrink and he said experiences like that are uncommon but not unheard of on mirtazapine, and I shouldn't worry. They're just dreams anyway; not anything I should be worrying about. But that doesn't placate me.
Doing research, I found that the bad dreams will subside a little after a few weeks. I am a little relieved I won't have many more dreams like the last night's, but something's still itching at the back of my mind about it.
