Of course: the chemicals. I became ill about a week and a half ago. Nothing new there. This apparently has become my body's way of objecting to my life. I go a few days without eating, then slowly work my way back up. I know it's insane, but that's what mental illness is.
The problem with this round was that I wasn't getting better, only worse and worse. I started falling down, a lot. I flopped like a fish on my apartment floor, on the hallway floor, on the basement. The last one, yesterday, I almost broke my collar bone. People said I wasn't making much sense and God knows what I did to my checking account. That alone will take a day to figure out.
The cops did a welfare check on me last night. They kept trying to talk me into going to the hospital, especially after they found out I had no phone or internet. Hell, no! This has become one of my deepest fears: stuck in a nursing home. I will fight tooth and nail any attempts made to "take care" of me.
So, what was going on? I thought and thought, and then it hit me. My psych drugs vary from mild to "kill a horse." My new shrink said I was on a very heavy dosage, all meds considered. I cut out the Seroquel and other downers this morning and I've been feeling better ever since. I've eaten. I can walk around without falling down. I got the phone and computer back online. I'm farting lilacs.
A special thank you to four people who have helped me along. Angels do walk the earth.
Post Script: A day later. Last night I decided to test my theory again. After the efforts of the day were completed, I took a Seroquel. Within an hour I was on Rubber Legs Street again.
That's it and I haven't had one since. I spent the entire day running errands, budgeting, and doing housework. Still no detectable signs of withdrawal. I'm seeing my new shrink tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about.