There seems to be a window of a few hours somewhere between midnight and 3AM each night where the stars align and the medication wears off and I feel somewhat normal. I don’t hurt from the being poked. I don’t feel like I’m going to lose my lunch or like acid is going to eat through my esophagus, like what happened to Frankie in THE HOLE. I’m not dizzy. My head doesn’t hurt too bad. And life is as it should be.

And so what usually happens is, I lie in bed all night and all day, trying to get comfortable but never really getting there because I’m too hot too cold too sore headachy nauseated you name it I am it, and then everything calms for a bit and I hit the ground running, ’cause kitchens don’t clean themselves, yo.

Usually what happens is that in the span of these three or so hours, I manage to get done twelve hours worth of work. I steam the kitchen while watching TV and power-Tweeting. I blog and edit and write all at the same time. So what if I just fed the cats Rice Krispies and poured milk on my Blue Buffalo? THEY’RE BOTH GLUTEN-FREE. IT WILL BE OK.

And then I pass out sometime around four o’clock, exhausted and disheveled, with my jeans around my knees, because that’s as far as I got before I fell asleep.

I talked to my doctor this morning and was like, “DUDE. SERIOUSLY. Last night I took a Lunesta and tried to drive to Atlantis.”

And he just shrugged it off, like, “OH YEAH. THAT HAPPENS.”

That thing where I get halfway to sleep and then wake my mind up because I think I am dying? TOTALLY NORMAL. The part about catching myself not breathing and being unable to move to do anything about it? THE INTENDED RESPONSE. Anxiety, hot flashes, and a migraine? YOU JUST GOT A TEN OUT OF TEN, KIDDO, GOOD JOB.

On the plus side, I’ve hit that space where you’re sick enough to feel sick but not so sick that you’re too sick to care. It isn’t like I’m confined to a bed, unable to check email or snark J.Lo’s Oscar dress on Twitter. There are days I just cannot sit in this house any longer, and so I go out to get groceries or check my post office box or pay bills, and by the time I get there, I’m like, holy shit this was a bad idea And then I have to creep home at 25 miles an hour because the road. won’t. stop. moving.

I guess what I’m saying is, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it is warbly. And that’s more than I could say a month ago.

So…progress.