I bought a suit. Er, I bought two. It was Ann Taylor Loft v. Express, or Wool v. Polyester. I'll have to make the decision at home today because last night I was way too messed up from Wellbutrin to think clearly at the mall.
Welbutrin is doing me some favors: Instead of a rapid-heart-beat response to any thought about tomorrow's interview, I feel a great peaceful distance from the appointment. No adrenaline surges at the idea of having to perform for an hour and a half in front of three strangers and a proofreading test. I'm beyond calm, aware that in some parallel universe I am freaking out and breaking into a sweat at all the bars to be hurdled in landing a decent, family-friendly job. I'm so calm that I'm fuzzy. Fuzzy on why exactly I'm qualified for the job in the first place, what skills my experience has augmented. I imagine myself sitting in the room with the hiring committee and having nothing to say, staring at them in a Welbutrin-induced state of insomnia and a sleepy smile.
The not sleeping is a problem. If I do sleep, it's a few hours at a time. I've lost all my deep-sleep cycles. Now it's REM all the way and I can hardly tell if I'm awake or dreaming for most of the night. I wake up exhausted. And then I take another Welbutrin, which peps me up.
Don't be alarmed, readers. I think the problem will be solved by cutting back my dose, a plan I put into action last night. Of course, the med levels need to die down before I'll actually notice a difference. I went to bed at ten. Woke up at midnight and again at 3:56. Went back to sleep till 4:19 when the four-year-old came out of her room to say her back itched. After that, all hope was lost. I've laid in bed, done physical therapy stretches, checked on salary ranges for Program Assistants at the UI, laid in bed some more, got up, put on exercise clothes with the intention to go on a walk, decided it was too dark out, and sat down to blog.