There’s a certain expectation we all carry when we go to the doctor. We think, This will help. This will make things better. After all, that’s why we seek medical advice—to improve, to heal, to find balance in the chaos of our bodies and minds. That was exactly my mindset when my doctor decided to adjust my medications.

What followed was a surreal, humbling, and—at times—terrifying experience.

It started off simple enough. A quick prescription change. Nothing drastic, just a new medication replacing an older one, with the promise of fewer side effects and better results. On day one, I barely noticed any changes. Sure, I felt a little off—slightly more tired than usual, a little groggy—but nothing I couldn’t chalk up to a regular day of life.

But then came day two.

The first thing I noticed that morning was a heaviness in my body, like I’d suddenly gained an invisible weight pressing down on me. Walking felt slower. Breathing felt harder. Even my thoughts felt like they were trudging through molasses. Then came the fog, a strange detachment from everything around me. It was as if someone had turned the saturation down on my world. Colors seemed duller, sounds were muffled, and time seemed to stretch unnaturally.

And then there was the drooling.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I took a sip of my morning coffee, only to feel a warm trickle of liquid escape the corner of my mouth. Clumsy, I thought, brushing it off as nothing. But then it happened again. And again. By mid-morning, I found myself constantly wiping my chin, frustrated and embarrassed by my body’s sudden betrayal.

Drooling isn’t something adults are supposed to do. It’s something you associate with babies or maybe an overly excited dog, not yourself. It wasn’t just inconvenient—it was humiliating. I changed shirts twice that day, only to resign myself to wearing dark colors so the evidence wouldn’t be as obvious.

But even more unsettling than the drooling was the sense that I was slipping away, little by little, into another world.

By the afternoon, I felt completely disconnected. My body moved, but it didn’t feel like mine. My thoughts came and went, but they didn’t seem to belong to me. I remember sitting down in front of the TV to watch a movie, thinking it might distract me or at least ground me in some way.

Instead, I just stared.

I couldn’t tell you the name of the movie or even what it was about. All I remember is the light flickering across the screen and the faint hum of the dialogue. I wasn’t watching the movie so much as existing in front of it. My eyes were glued to the screen, unblinking, while my mind floated somewhere else entirely.

I felt like a passenger in my own life, sitting quietly in the back seat while some unrecognizable force took the wheel. The sensation was both numbing and terrifying. For two hours, I barely moved, barely thought, barely felt anything at all.

When the credits rolled, it was as if someone flipped a switch. I blinked, looked around, and felt the faintest jolt of recognition. I was still here. The room was still the same. The fog hadn’t lifted, but for a moment, I felt anchored again.

Day three arrived with cautious optimism. I woke up feeling… better. Not good, necessarily, but better. The heaviness wasn’t as oppressive, the fog wasn’t as thick, and the drooling, mercifully, seemed to have eased. I still didn’t feel like myself, but I felt closer to the surface, like I was slowly rising from the depths of whatever world I’d been trapped in.

That’s the thing about adjusting to new medications—it’s not just a physical experience. It’s emotional. It’s mental. It’s existential. You start questioning everything, from your health to your identity to your very existence.

For me, the hardest part wasn’t the drooling or the heaviness or even the fog. It was the feeling of being disconnected from myself. It was the sense that I was losing touch with the person I thought I was, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize.

But day three gave me hope.

As the hours passed, I noticed small improvements. My thoughts were a little clearer. My movements felt a little more natural. Even the drooling—my constant, unwelcome companion for the past two days—had diminished.

By the end of the day, I found myself laughing for the first time since this ordeal began. It wasn’t a big, hearty laugh—just a small chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Because really, what else can you do when life throws something like this at you?

Looking back on these past few days, I realize how much I’ve learned—not just about my body, but about myself. I’ve learned the importance of patience, of giving yourself grace when things don’t go as planned. I’ve learned the value of humor, of finding light even in the darkest moments. And I’ve learned the necessity of advocacy, of speaking up when something feels wrong and trusting the people who care for you to help you find your way.

If you’ve ever experienced something like this, I want you to know you’re not alone. Adjusting to new medications can be a daunting, disorienting, and sometimes terrifying process. But it’s also temporary. It’s a chapter, not the whole story.

And sometimes, all it takes is one day—one moment of clarity—to remind you that you’re still here, still fighting, still capable of moving forward.

As I write this, I’m cautiously optimistic about what tomorrow will bring. The fog hasn’t fully lifted, but the path ahead feels a little clearer. And for now, that’s enough.