Dearest Rachel –
I’m not gonna go so far as to say that I need a new drug (and in event, apparently Huey Lewis didn’t go that far either – he actually said “want,” much to my surprise – not that he was talking about drugs in the first place, but rather about love and its effects on him), but I’m literally sick and tired of this alcohol-and-acetaminophen cocktail I’ve been quaffing a shot of every night for the past week or so.
Yes, that’s right; for all that I’ve always said it doesn’t have an effect on me, I’ve been taking NyQuil for the last seven days or so, apart from this last one.
Now in my defense, when I’ve said that it doesn’t have an effect on me, it’s had to do with something of a peripheral effect that it’s notorious for otherwise; that of it having a soporific effect on people. When I started in university, and it was included as something of a “welcome to college” care package, I was warned by my dorm mates that it would knock me out if I were to take it, but that it would do its job. Well, I’ve told you in the past about how that worked out. In all honesty, I don’t remember how well it worked on my cold at the time, but I do recall being impressed – negatively – about how it didn’t work nearly as well as I’d been led to believe in terms of putting me to sleep, since no matter how hard my then-roommate tried to get into the room quietly enough that I wouldn’t be woken up, it wasn’t enough… and then, of course, the fire alarm went off.
And now, to defend NyQuil – since I really ought to, as I continue to use it, which would seem foolish if it didn’t accomplish its purpose – it wasn’t designed to be a sleep aid (although it has modified formulations that are, these days). Yes, it’s meant to be used at bedtime, but it’s specifically meant to alleviate the various symptoms of a cold (or maybe even the flu) so as to allow one to get a decent night’s sleep, which should assist in allowing the body to repair itself. Once you’re no longer (or much less, anyway) having to deal with coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and all the rest of that list that goes into their old slogan, you’ll be able to sleep better; it’s not going to put you to sleep by itself – although theoretically, the alcohol included in its formula should assist in that, too.
But after all this time, I really didn’t want to be falling into any sort of dependency on the stuff, so I just decided to go to bed without it last night. If nothing else, the symptoms I’m down to – a mild headache and a lump in my throat that makes swallowing somewhat painful (which is the one way I never want to become more like my Dad) – aren’t covered by the medicine’s advertising copy, so why subject myself to another ersatz shot of ouzo and absinthe? It’s not going to make that much of a difference to effects that have, thankfully, already been diminishing as I’ve slowly begun to recover; if they can’t eliminate them outright, it’s not worth it.
But now that I’m more or less on the mend, there’s still the matter of a lack of motivation, of get-up-and-go, that needs to be restored. True, it’s not as if I have any urgent deadlines to face that requires loads of energy, but even my body agrees with my mind that this lassitude is a bit much.
Now, I get it; this is not the sort of thing you would have endorsed my getting into (or at the very least, you would remind me that I could be making coffee for myself at home, rather than buying it pre-made on the open market. Which is true, but I don’t have a disposable cup I can take from home to the ‘office’ and back). I hardly need to remind you that you despised the taste of the stuff, although you tolerated its presence when Daniel would request and drink it from my once-upon-a-time McDonald’s runs. Ironically, however, Daniel doesn’t mess with the stuff too much anymore, as the term “McDonald’s runs” hits just a little too close to home for him.
But while I’m not entirely sure how truly effective it is, I’ve gotten used to the flavor, especially when tempered with a shot of cocoa in it (although for the sake of conscience, I skip the cream and sugar; the chocolate is enough in the way of added calories). It may be a placebo effect, but between the sweetness and the caffeine, I’m almost feeling normal again at this point.
I mean, as far as self-medication goes, it could be worse. The other night, I had a dream about someone – no one I recognized in real life, but who in the dream seemed like an older, trusted person, which just means that they look like they were actually in their fifties, since I still see myself as a thirty-something, and so anybody my age is ‘older’ than me – who offered me a bump of cocaine as a pick-me-up. Somehow, I realized that they were trying to be kind and generous, but I refused the snort for obvious reasons.
And reasons not so obvious. Emo Philips once pointed out that one should stay away from the stuff, because at some point in time, there will come a day when you will be expected to “treat” your benefactors in return. And while I could probably bear the expense, the idea of finding my way to whatever black market that offered it doesn’t appeal to me. So if I’m going to struggle my way to normalcy, it’s going to be through legitimate means.
Although, now that I’ve written all this, it occurs to me (and maybe it’s your voice that’s nudging me about it); if I’m relying on some external substance to bring me back to normal, it is really normalcy at all?
Letters to Rachel 