It seems only fitting that, like the dead horse this is, the first article I was actually INTERVIEWED for–about Drinking Moms (WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?!*) would have aired yesterday, when I was working on the post about using–and abusing–prescription drugs.
And here is the guest post that I wrote for The Drinking Diaries. I am very, very, very proud of it, but since I didn’t know it was going to put up until right now, I will re-run it later in the week here.
My Dearest Topamax,
I can call you Topamax, right? I know that technically I know you as Topiramate, but that simply doesn’t roll off the tongue with the same lilting lift as “Topamax” does, so we’ll just pretend.
Shh, baby, don’t be like that. It’s the insurance companies coming between us, that’s all.
Because for you, I would do anything. ANYTHING.
Until you, I was in a bad place, Topamax, see, I had a headache for 5 whole months. Maybe even 6. Now, wipe that look off your face, Mister, don’t you be acting like you don’t believe me. I don’t have secrets from you. WHY WOULD I LIE?
Shh, there, there. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to shout, I’m just tired of people giving me that look. That look that says, “I don’t BELIEVE you.” That look that says, “how could any SANE person last for 5 whole months with a splitting headache?” That look that says, “Bitch, you be looking for my sympathy AND my Vicodin.”
While it’s true, I WOULD take Vicodin over pretty much anything, including (but never limited to): vodka, whiskey, diet Coke (*sobs*), food, water, air, my dogs, my cats, and Dr. House, I’m pretty sure you, Topamax, kick his pasty ass squarely out of bed on his chalky, addictive ass.
Now, sure, your side effects are, well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’ll just be out with it: they suck.
My friends on Twitter warned me so, my friends on Facebook pleaded with me to take care (ed note: how the hell did I function before my friends in the computer could tell me important stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know?) so I knew after popping the first of the delightfully teeny-tiny pills that I was in for a doozy of a ride.
First to go was my beloved diet Coke, but for you, Topamax, o! love of my life, anything, even the first love of my life. Honestly, I didn’t mind. If you rid me of my evil demon headaches, I wouldn’t mind if you turned my arms purple and green spotted. Priorities, people.
And, Topamax, please don’t tell anyone, especially that hateful bitch Imatrex, but I’m pretty sure that I’m pregnant with your baby because I am rife with the morning sickness and the nausea. I’d be stuffing my urpy face with saltines if my chemically exhausted butt wasn’t glued to the couch, so instead I moan pitifully at passersby. Like my children. Who are now so sick of me that they’re regularly petitioning for a new mother.
(can you blame them? THINK OF THE CHILDREN!)
This is chemical nausea, so I know better to pee on any sticks, so we’ll keep this between me, you and The Internet, but secretly, I’m thrilled. This is the only pregnancy with which I may actually lose weight instead of grow to water buffalo dimensions! The downside is, of course, chemical nausea which is very different than pregnancy nausea, but shh, honey, it’s okay, Momma still loves you best.
Because with you, my headaches, which have plagued me, making me wonder if maybe, just maybe I was slowly going mad(der), have slowly dissipated. They’re not gone, no, but they’re going. Which is more than that stupid whore Robaxin could ever have claimed to have done for me.
With you, Topamax, I may not be able to drink any longer. Maybe I can’t drive or operate heavy machinery. I may no longer be able to remember the words for certain things, but, between you and I, let’s face it, I couldn’t have done it before, either.
I may suffer morning sickness without the hint of a crotch parasite and vomit at the sound of mac-n-cheese being stirred in a pot. I may be the only un-pregnant, pregnant woman who loses 60 pounds (God willing) by eating approximately 8 calories a day, but I don’t care.
You, my sweet, sweet drug, are worth every blood draw, every dry heave, and every tingly extremity.
Always and forever, or at least until my body goes into toxicity and my organs shut down,
*You can quote me. OR Maude Flanders, which is who I am shamefully zoinking this from. But I’m pretty sure she’s a cartoon character who was killed off, so we’re probably all good.