Finished! (for now, and hopefully forever)

Unfurl the bunting, I am done with Roaccutane! 110 days, 274 pills, 5480mg of drug…

Yes, due to taking a week off and only taking 40mg for half a month I have had slightly under the 500mg/kg suggested amount (I weigh about 60kg) but frankly, it’s the muthafuckin party season and I’ll be buggered if I have to miss out on mulled wine and brandy butter.

Now I’m just waiting for my lips to go back to normal as an indicator that I can start drinking again…

Bored.

SO bored of ‘tane now. Only got two more weeks to go, but I almost feel like I’ve forgotten how to be social and go down the pub and stuff. I’m pretty fed up of getting redface at the slightest increase in temperature too. Oh, and after an episode where I, upon a whim, spent a Friday night making a bizarre doll out of my dressing gown sleeve and the stuffing of a cushion, I feel I may be suffering from a slight mania.

Still, two weeks, two little weeks…

The Sweats

I gots them. But this could just be excessive gym going or my insistence on wearing a cheap faux leather jacket in this stupid inconsistent weather.

Anyway, went to the doc’s for a third time. Come 6th December I am freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and ready to bust my liver with alcohol during the party season

Time Saving Geekery

Though it is terribly glamourous and ‘Valley of the Dolls’ -esque to pop ten pills a day, the measuring out and chowing down has been making me late for work. Okay, it doesn’t that THAT long to open, measure out and swallow, but I run a very tight ship in the morning, principally so I can spend every last minute in bed, and five minutes is a big difference when you get up at 8am and leave at 8.35am.  It’s a rather messy and badly dressed ship, often covered in streaks of mascara in the wrong places and leaving a trail of old receipts and fag packets behind it, but tight nevertheless.

Then I discovered this little beauty. Well known to those of advanced age or suffering from an autoimmune deficiency, this nifty little case from Boots. Perfect! Spend Sunday evening feeling like a drug dealer and then save time all week!

To add to my super toightness, I have also perfected the skill of swallowing ten pills in one gulp. Sexy.

Probably Quite Important Word of Warning…

Don’t take your pills on an empty stomach!

Admittedly I popped my ‘tane with a chaser of vitamin E, milk  thistle, iron and garlic pills, but about half an hour later….

… let’s just say the Flatmate had to be sent out on a mission to find Immodium

Panic!

A few spots appeared on my back (possibly due to all the sweat from extra gym going) so I panicked and am back taking 60mg a day.

I think I am doing okay, none of the fatigue problems of before, if anything I’m slightly worried about the lack of side effects – my skin isn’t as flaky as before and even my lips aren’t that bad. I suppose my overall complexion is still rather ruddy and my eyes get a bit dry, but I’m almost wondering if it isn’t working anymore. That would be the irrational paranoia though I guess!

Gymbooooo!

It’s taken rubbing thigh blubber, a weekend of takeaways and an impending trip to the futuristic land of sand (Dubai), but I have finally hauled my carcass down to the gym for a proper workout session.

For me, going to the gym is as much of a mental exertion as it is physical effort. Some people find the treadmill relaxing. A yoga session turns their minds into deep pools of blank water. The interior of my mind meanwhile is more like hysterical todder running around in purple-faced circles shrieking ‘ohgodohgodonly1minutetill1kmandthenicanhaveabreakohbuticouldbreakin30secondsandthenrunmoreafterwardsarrrrrg’  and ‘owowowowstupidwankerfinishtheposealready’ respectively. Given that for the duration of my workout there is this small internal Girl on the ‘Tane freaking out, it takes quite a lot to convince this little grumpy personification of volition (that I imagine looking a bit like Suri Cruise, stomping around my head cavity in glittery Mary Janes) that large podgy GotT should go to the gym in the first place. So when I read that ‘Tane can cause muscle cramp, particularly from ‘vigourus’ exercise, I therefore took it as a green light to not go to the gym for two months.

It wasn’t actually that bad! I thought at one point I might be having a heart attack as I had tightness in my chest, but I think that was actually caused by me craning my neck to watch BBC News 24 on the tv above the treadmill. I also sweated a lot more than usual, but that could just be because I’m a fat chick now (ho ho) or just that I have more of a busom for a river of sweat’s current to be directed down.

Now I just need to see if I can still walk tomorrow…

The Fear of the End – Update

Happened to go to my work doctor today for something else, so she asked me how I was doing on the ‘tane. And suggested I stay on it for another month. As she is a reputable lady with a sensible cardigan from South Africa and not a marauding Oirish drunk who would rather speak to his son and take my money than give my pregnancy tests and read my blood test results, I am going to heed her advice.

Only problem is that I go to the ATP festival on 10th December and NEED to drink by then. So may up the dosage and face the faints.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is why you go to a Quack, so they don’t try to dissuade you from your foolish plans.

Ow.

git

I am not a morning person. I have to wack on GMTV for at least half an hour to summon the strength (via  increasing rage at Andrew ‘Patronising Git’ Castle) to get up and throw on some clothes, and whole commutes to work  can pass in a forgettable daze, only punctuated by yet more rage, this time directed at some innocent dolt who is slow at getting off the tube at Oxford Circus.

I have recently had to put in eyedrops first thing, which I think is half the ‘tane and half the dazzling yellow and red of GMTV, but in either way is not conducive to my morning joie de vive. This sucks further because it is a general indicator that I can’t wear contact lenses every day without suffering a 4pm eye/headache crash and am accruing a small expensive mountain of lenses in my bathroom as a result.

But I digress. Today, in a forgettable fug, I concocted my usual breakfast cuisine of ‘half toasted bagel with marmite’; a classic dish caused by our toaster being semi broken, but this being a fact of huge importance between 8.22 and 8.28am and then instantly forgettable between 8.29am and 8.21am the next day.

I raised the soggy bagel to my mouth, but in the place of salty buttery dough I instead heard a ‘krikk’ and felt a sharp pain in my lip. I threw it down. THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE BAGEL.

So my lip had split. Totally. I suppose it was a bit tight, but these days it generally is, but ouchy!

Cue the Flatmate walking in two minutes later to find a slightly wobbly Girl on the ‘Tane with blood on her chin, eating a bagel with a knife and fork.

Still, it woke me up better than a hundred Andrew Castles patronising poor Emma whatserface, so silver linings n’all…

My lips, pre ‘tane

Whoop Whoop Scientific Theory Alert:

Was out last Friday and did coke again. Spent the entire next day in bed suffering from fatigue. Check out that connection Dr Quincy.

I also suffered severely from the cold, as although alcohol effectively numbs the pain of sitting outside in a beergarden with an icy beverage in October, cocaine does not. But that is another story.