So the weird and annoying and “makes Heather burst up and out of bed with an obscenity” dreams are back with Cymbalta. I had these types of dreams when I was on Zoloft, but rarely when on Prozac. In fact, on Zoloft I was convinced one night that a tarantula had dropped out of the ceiling and onto our bed at the exact moment Jon was dreaming that someone was breaking into our apartment. Holy God. Seriously, you guys should hire us for parties.
I shot out of that bed so fast that I ended up diving head-first three feet across the room into our dresser, knocking over a lamp and breaking it into hundreds of pieces, all while Jon was screaming, “WHERE’S THE INTRUDER! WHERE’S THE INTRUDER!” I banged my head hard enough to wake up, and I was all, intruder? You mean the giant, hairy spider that landed on my leg? IT’S STILL IN BED NEXT TO YOU. And I’m not coming over there to save you, sorry, that wasn’t in our vows.
Once everything had calmed down and we figured out what was going on, I climbed back into bed and fell instantly asleep while Jon sat up terrified the rest of the night. That whole scenario pretty much sums up our marriage.
So last night I got stuck in a mall. ALL NIGHT LONG. I could not find an exit, and I kept passing the Hot Topic and the JC Penney and the Cinnabon, over and over again. And I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn’t wake myself up to get out of it. Oh, there’s the Hot Topic again! Maybe I should stop in a grab some fake jewels with sticky tape on the back so that I can pretend my nose is pierced! Or maybe a Hello Kitty purse, you know, so I can finally start acting my age.
When Tyrant got into work this morning he asked how I had slept, and even though I know he didn’t care I said, “I got stuck in a mall and I couldn’t get out. For eight straight hours. Total nightmare.”
“Nightmare?!” he said, incredulous. “Sweetie, you may call that a nightmare, but when you’re gay you call that reality. Please.”