Remember that time when I explained how I was really, really awkward on the telephone? I am here to tell you that my phone awkwardness has officially gone next level. I am hereby declaring myself the gold, silver, AND bronze medalist in the phone awkwardness Olympics, which is not a real thing that exists. I am dropping the mic. I am rolling ’em up. I am retreating into a cave and never, ever coming out again.
I think I may have accidentally convinced the office manager at my neurologist’s that I have a borderline severe addiction to prescription drugs.
Full disclosure: I have a prescription for Klonopin, which in high dosages is a strong anti psychotic. In the low dosage I take, it is an anti-anxiety medication that shuts my brain up just long enough for me to fall asleep and stay asleep, instead of laying wide awake at 4 am trying to figure out what prices I should set when I become a Craigslist prostitute, which is what I will ostensibly have to do if I lose my job. I’m not in any immediate danger of losing my job – except at 4 am, when I am also in immediate danger of:
1. Being horribly murdered, which I have suddenly decided is likely because I saw the same car both on my way to work and my way home from work two days in a row, and am clearly being stalked.
2. Having one of the cats die of a rare, as yet unnamed disease because I bought the wrong food, and also the one cat has seemed more insane than usual lately.
3. Dying soon myself, because there’s an itchy spot on the side of my left tit that is definitely caused by cancer and not by a weirdly placed tag in the bra I wore that day. If the cancer doesn’t get me, the highway probably will. Really, have you thought about how fucked up driving really is? Fallible human beings strapped into one ton death machines and set loose at high speeds? It’s insane. People who think the Eagles were a good band are allowed to drive, for God’s sake! I’m supposed to trust that someone with judgement like that is going to able to navigate merging onto a highway with no merge area? Ridiculous. I’m going to die a hideous, fiery death. I will be nothing but red asphalt.
My neurologist suggested Klonopin because it’s really important that I get enough sleep – without it, my multiple sclerosis completely saps all my energy and traps my brain in a kind of impenetrable fog that I don’t escape from for three days. He also suggested Klonopin because, while OTC sleep aids will sometimes help me fall asleep, they also make me have incredibly vivid dreams about mundane things like being at work, and when I wake up I’m a) exhausted, because my brain thinks I’ve just put in a full day at work; and b) incredibly pissed off, because the full day of work didn’t actually happen and now I’ve got to go do it AGAIN.
Things have been a bit stressy at my job of late, and I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping. When I called my pharmacy for a refill, I discovered that my prescription had expired the week before, so I called my neurologist’s office to have them reauthorize it. And that’s when I started down the road that will probably end with me being the squarest person in a non-luxury rehab facility.
“Hi,” I said to the office manager, ” I need a…” And here there was an incredibly long pause as I tried desperately, and failed, to think of the word “reauthorization.” Finally, desperate to say anything, anything at all to end the excruciating silence, I blurted, “Re-do! I need a re-do on my Klonopin prescription!”
“What dosage?” she asked.
Already flustered from the reauthorization/re-do fiasco, I naturally completely failed to comprehend then meaning of the word “dosage,” instead opting to believe that she was asking how many pills I got in a bottle. “I think, like, twenty or thirty?”
There was another pause, this one on her end. She was no doubt imagining that I was not taking one half of a one milligram Klonopin pill when I was having trouble sleeping, but that I was, in fact, gobbling handfuls of them and washing them down with Scotch in order to deal with the shambles that my life had clearly devolved into and was trying to blag my way into getting an insanely high dosage of an anti psychotic with a known street value.
“That’s a….pretty high dosage,” she said finally. Clearly, and rightly, she had no interest in aiding a budding Neely O’Hara from Valley of the Dolls in her wayward quest to turn into Dee Dee Ramone, The Bad Years.
One mostly coherent explanation as to how I split a one milligram pill in half before bed to aid with sleep later, and she agreed to phone the reauthorization in despite likely being at least partially convinced that I was basically Neely O’Hara and would just keep calling doctors until I found one who agreed to authorize my prescription.
Such was my relief that, in a flustered hurry, I gave her what I’m fairly certain is the wrong number for my pharmacy. My only hope now is that I get lots of time to relax when I inevitably get sent to the bin to clean up.