When you over medicate a writer.


I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all. I’ve been coughing and moaning, aching and groaning, all for great and good reason of course, I am sick. And tired. And sick and tired of being so very sick and tired, as anyone would be, quite obviously.

The aches have turned to pains, actual and intense and relentless pains, so much pain, in the matter of all things factual, I can barely walk. My back, the lower portion of it, has tightened and old injuries have found new ways to complain.

No matter, I have Pinterest to keep me occupied and my bed to comfort me. Neither are doing me much good, but at least I am semi, sort of, and somewhat comfortable. But not really.

There was going to be a point to this rambling. I think there was at least. Rambling! That was where I was heading, straight towards the rambling.

Because of the incessant coughing I was experiencing, I took some medication, the packaging clearly made promises of cough calming relief. Inserts included with such medication often make false promises, as this particular insert clearly did.

After some time, I took a muscle relaxer because of the pain induced by the coughing that was anything but being calmed. Because of the coughing and the pain, I was having great difficulty falling into the blissful, healing sleep I so desperately desired and needed, so in my sleep deprived, pain filled, chest congested misery, I added to the mix the smallest dose of something to help me sleep.

In theory, it all seemed the smart thing to do. Theories are sometimes ill-conceived and do not result in the outcomes expected. It was a long and strange night filled with fitful turnings and the oddest sorts of dreams.

I clearly remember waking, several times and reaching for my pen. In my groggy state one thing was clear, brilliant ideas were brewing. I recall writing what I just knew was going to be some sort of inspired masterpiece.

This afternoon, yes, the morning passed me by, I begrudgingly awoke with a wee bit of excitement to read what my subconscious had penned to the page.

Something was seriously amiss. The notebook and the pen and the reading light lay by my side, but the scribblings which greeted me were not quite what I was expecting. Not quite at all. A sampling, I give you . . .


It was, at least I think it must have been, at the very most, three days before the second evening of the month. I remember it was in the eve because she was tucking the sun into the horizon and placing the stars where the sun had spent the last part of the afternoon, and at the very least it could have been only yesterday.

   Ticktock, I’m lost and I’m late and it’s almost time for something.

For what?


How do you know?

   Because it’s always almost time for something.

It is?

   Yes, actually.

Like what?

   Something, for certain. Sometimes lots of somethings.

You’re so dreadfully difficult to understand.

   I know. It’s delightful though, isn’t it?

It’s something.


It turns out my brilliance was not nearly as brilliant in the light day as it was in the darkest and deepest parts of the night. sigh

Still, perhaps I can use my nonsensical, over-medicated  ramblings to create some sort of little story someday. In the meantime, I will return to my misery until it subsides . . .

Crystal R. Cook

6 thoughts on “When you over medicate a writer.

    • Our minds have surely crossed paths in some otherwordly realm, my friend. I thought the very same thing! I chose the Mad Hatter quote for just this reason. There are seven pages of this silliness! Thank you kindly for the hugs ;o)

      Liked by 1 person

      • SEVEN PAGES?!?! That’s amazing.

        I’ve written poetry (and sometimes posts) whilst dropping asleep tired…last time I came to and there was a sentence about a tractor!!! NO IDEA where it came from.

        It’s kind of the writer equivalent of what Dali did, non?

        Liked by 1 person

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