Missing my white circles

I ran out of one of my prescriptions today. Only one of several, but each is like a sort of piece to my puzzle.

I have to order my meds by mail, it is the way my insurance requires them to be received because they are "maintenance medications." Does that make me high maintenance?  I try to order more in time, but life gets crazy, the mail gets slow . . . they used to automatically ship them off when I was getting low  . . . the system logged that they were sending out 90 days worth and would automatically send more out when the end of that time frame neared. Insurance changes put an end to that.

The bottle had been getting lighter every morning, then a few days ago when I could see the partially clear, yellow-orange mishmash colored plastic bottom of the bottle I hoped more than the day before that the bubble-wrapped package containing my "anti" everything-people-fear-and-don't-want-to-deal with medicine would be carefully folded inside my mailbox when I got home.

The rattle in the bottle gets smaller and smaller, weaker as more and more of the little white tablets are enlisted to help me fight my war. When one is left the clickity clack of itself smacking the sides of the preformed plastic is a sad little sound. It's almost gone. This medicine I have become accustomed to having to function everyday is now one small compressed circle of powder in a large, otherwise empty pharmacy bottle.

It ran out yesterday, so I could not take it today. That one, we'll call it part b of the anti-psychotic cocktail I've trained myself to ingest before I leave the house each day. I still have a and c, but getting the three to work without the middle is a bit difficult.

It's only when I am without some of the medicine I have been (strongly) recommended that I realize that I am chemically dependent. If I go one day without the little lifesavers I feel  . . . not real.

Today I am spinning and the threads and patterns in the carpet seem to be moving back and forth against each other. Some sounds seem to be louder, while others are much more quiet, though on a normal day they are the same. I can't focus, everything is a fog. I won't remember what you just told me, so I hope it wasn't important.

My skin feels numb, and I the last two hours went by in 10 minutes. I'm itchy and my heart is pounding and racing . . . can they hear it in the next room?

I'll keep this to myself, and you'll never know because I've become so skilled at pushing through.

It's like being hungover and you just want it to go away but you have to let it run its course.
It's like those first few moments after you wake up when the room spins and it takes a moment to come to your senses, out of the sleep fog. . .. but being without a long-term medication for day or more means you stay in the fog all day. That is what it feels like.

I just want to sleep. Sleep is the only thing that pushes this all away. Sleep wraps me up like an angel and kicks everything else out. Sleep is the only safe place from this.

I hope it's in my mail box when I get home.