One night about a year ago, my husband left me and checked into the Ambien Arms Hotel for the night.
T-Bird had taken Ambien for almost a year, without incident. If you don't count the night he accidentally took TWO.
One Ambien knocks him on his can. Two Ambien left him in a fog for days. That's great if you're on a beach somewhere with nothing to do but exist. Sucks when people, like bosses and family, expect you to function at Maximum Capacity.
That never happened again. It really spooked him.
Every great once-in-a-while he would say that he saw two of me after taking one, and follow that up with snoring.
On the night in question, he said he saw two of me, and started walking the floor.
Uh-oh. This is new. He usually can't walk to the bathroom when the Ambien kicks in, but he's movin' pretty good now.
He was pacing back and forth from the bathroom mirror to the bedroom door, and every time he passed by me, he told me he saw two of me.
"That's nice, Baby. Your pill has kicked your ass, so lay down and go to sleep."
More pacing, and I'm really getting concerned now.
When he crashed into the foot of the bed and fell over on it, I thought he was hurt, but he was up in a minute and back to pacing.
"Are you hurt?" No response, just a dirty look like the fall was my fault.
"Honey, lay down. You're kinda screwed up in the head." I am talking to the air.
I don't know this man, and I don't like him worth a damn. This is NOT my husband. This ain't him AT ALL. I have seen him at his absolute worst, but what to do with THIS?
He made a grab for me and pulled me down on the bed and I pushed him off. He laughed at me, and he started pacing again.
If he makes a move to the door, or, God Forbid, tries to leave the house I am royally screwed. He is too big to handle, and I'm just about to call the paramedics.
I keep a very rusty, long tined BBQ fork by the bed. It's 26 inches long, and with my reach I can leave a neat row of holes from four feet away with that thing. I decided to stick him if he came at me. I love the bastard, but I'm kinda fond of ME, too.
I tell him he's scaring me, and he ignores it.
He finally stops at the foot of the bed and says:
"You've got two heads."
I take it as progress if now there is just one me with two heads, instead of the two twin Slicks he's been seeing up to now.
I try a new tactic:
"Yes, I have two heads and BOTH of them are telling you to LAY DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO TO SLEEP!" I'm screaming now.
I got a quick glimpse of him at the age of five with his lip poked out.
He flopped down on the bed and rolled over like he was mad at the world---or maybe he's mad at the two-headed Medusa that just yelled and cussed at him.
One deep sigh, and Thank You Lord he is snoring.
Can I sleep now? No. I was afraid he'd get up, get in the truck and then we'd REALLY have trouble.
I'd be forced to call the Sheriff's Department to round up my Midnight Rider, and that means he wakes up in a cell or hospital bed. Not on my watch if I can help it.
He gets up the next morning refreshed, a new man, and I can barely function from sleep deprivation. I have had enough time to become very, VERY, angry by then. I mean, I had all night.
He had no idea about ANYTHING that happened the night before. He remembered taking the pill, but that was all.
I gave him the run down from the night before and he freaked. He completely freaked. He wasn't happy to discover that I would poke him full of holes, either.
After looking on-line and reading accounts far worse than what I had seen, we concluded that we were just fortunate that it wasn't worse.
Bye-bye Ambien. It was real, it was fun, but it wasn't REAL fun.