artificial peace

I took this photo in the Presidio in San Francisco while I waited for Kris to finish the Nuts Across the Bay 12K in 2005.


It's like there's a politically inspired cease fire between my peripheral nervous system and my brain. Both sides are still angry, but they have been forced to get along by your friends and mine: Lyrica and Cymbalta. This duo is potent. I know that the Cybalta is supposed to take up to six weeks to fully work, and I'm still building up my dose, but I can already feel a change. Namely-- blithering intoxication. This would not be a problem if I didn't have a darling child to care for. I would love to drift into this drug induced stupor, but then who would burn, I mean cook the fries and chicken nuggets?

Besides my inability to follow conversations or drive my car, there is also a lovely numb sensation most of the time. That is unless I think about the fact that I feel numb. Then it subsides and the pain comes back to center or my attention. So I have to think about not thinking about the pain. If that makes sense.

Apparently neither my nerves nor brain seems to want to let go of it's nasty inflated pain signals. I'm pretty sure the drugs just help distract me from it all so that the fun numbness can invade my consciousness. This false sense of relief leaves me feeling nervous that at any moment the pain could come charging over it's borders, ending the cease fire for good.