I’m cutting back on my anxiety meds, from the already-low “trial dose” I’ve been on for the last year or two to half that. I’m pretty sure they don’t even make pills in the size I’m now taking. It’s weird that I need that tiny bit of medication every day to feel normal, but thems the breaks.

And I’m sticking to it this time. I’m in therapy now (the free kind the school offers, but still) and an anxiety-and-stress group (also at school). I don’t feel like I’m making much progress in either of them so far: I’m not sure my therapist understands why I’m there, and none of the people in my group are like me (i.e., physical symptoms for no apparent reason).

I’ve been keeping a chart of my moods and all that, as my therapist recommended, and that’s going okay. It’s given me an excuse to track my weight, which is something I’ve been planning to do for a year but had never gotten around to doing. The goal of the chart is to help me figure out why I get sick, so I can make it stop without meds. But because I’ve been on the meds the whole time, I haven’t been getting sick, so the chart hasn’t produced any great insights so far. The only times I’ve felt sick are in the couple of days leading up to getting on a plane, and when Sam woke me up in the middle of the night to go poop and I was all disoriented. No surprises there.

And that’s why I’m cutting my dosage, to induce the sick feeling so I can try to figure out what triggers it. The dosage changes are supposed to take a week or to to take effect, but I’ve only been cutting back for two days, and I first noticed an hour ago that I was feeling a little unsettled. Finally, some data for my chart! A change in the dependent variable!

I am also reminded that the sick feeling sucks. When I’m not sick, it’s easy to visualize myself handling it with grace. When I am, it’s a different story. Anyway, it’s manageable so far. Let’s see if I still think so in a week, when the levels of whatever-chemicals-this-regulates in my brain have dropped to their new normal.

I board the first of four flights tomorrow afternoon. It’s not a big plane, but at least it’s a short-ish flight and I’ll have a window seat (in the exit row, no less). The weather looks pretty promising, too, which is always nice.

I’ve managed to stay distracted over the last week—sitting for four finals will do that. But now finals are done, and I’m left working on my totally uninspired Space Law paper and, of course, thinking about airplanes.

My entire body is a ball of tension that starts with a knot in my stomach and branches out to every muscle. And of course thinking about feeling sick only makes it worse. The best solution I’ve found—and I know it sounds stupid—is to smile. I look at Samson, think the words “my dog is cute,” and force a smile. And it works! For a moment, I relax a little.

If only I could bring Sammy with me for cuteness support. Maybe I’ll load some pictures of him onto my phone, so I can be the weirdo apparently praying to my dog as the plane lifts off.

So that settles it—only funny podcasts for the plane ride. My current favorites are Jordan, Jesse, Go! and Stop Podcasting Yourself. I would bring some You Look Nice Today, but I’ve listened to every episode of that show so many times that I can almost recite them.

Wish me luck! Once I get through the first flight, the rest should be easier.

I’ve managed to avoid thinking about my upcoming airplane flights (three weeks!) most days, but I do sometimes dream about planes. The experience, fortunately, is usually pleasant.

Last night, for instance, I dreamt that I got on my plane to Nashville and found, to my relief, that it was much larger than I’d expected. So large, in fact, that it had a jumbotron-equipped lounge and a full-size Starbucks in the back. I would have liked to head back there during the flight and enjoy something decaffeinated (caffeine exacerbates the anxiety thing), but the plane only got airborne for a minute or two before it landed again and began driving the rest of the way to Tennessee.

This has been a common pattern in my airplane dreams lately: huge luxury planes that don’t fly much. I’ve dreamt about a plane with hotel rooms, a plane with a buffet, and a plane with office space. And whatever the type of plane, if it gets into the air at all, it scoots along about ten feet off the ground, dodging bridges and trees. Now THAT’S what flying should be, eh?

I’m pleased to report that after five days of raising a fuss, my rogue wisdom tooth did finally settle its ass down, as I requested. While it was hurting, though, I called to move the surgery date up a bit, so they’re all coming out tomorrow. Huzzah!

Right now I don’t feel much anxiety. I’m trying not to get worked up about it, and so far that’s been pretty successful. No dizziness or nausea, at least, which is a relief. Last night I thought I felt the first wave of nausea coming on around bedtime, but after thinking a little more I realized it was probably that chai frappuccino and toffee bar I had for dinner instead.

I imagine I’ll post pictures of my chipmunk face in a few days, so look forward to those. So long, extra teeth!

I need to write about this because it’s been on my mind a lot lately. It’s about my wisdom teeth and their continued presence in my head.

I first found out that my two bottom wisdom teeth were growing in sideways and would have to be removed when I was seventeen, and for the seven years since then I’ve been (1) putting off having it done and (2) worrying about it.

I actually made and kept a preliminary appointment with an oral surgeon last year, but that was around the same time that Larry I was causing trouble, so I dealt with him first. But that surgeon’s office was done all in matchy browns and oranges with fancy chairs, like someone’s living room. Even the exam rooms were painted a soothing, sumptuous brown. The staff all wore identical burnt-orange scrubs. Would YOU want to undergo minor surgery in someone’s living room? I thought not. Garish hospital white, practical furniture, and bears-and-hippos scrubs for me, please.

Plus the surgeon was too jokey, and his hands were cold and stumpy. Needless to say, I didn’t call those interior decorators medical professionals back, even after I’d recovered from my surgery.

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