Side Effects May Include: Hope, Hysteria, and Horrible Sweats

By Antonia at Unremarkable Me, who once mistook a side effect for a spiritual awakening. It turned out to be a codeine-induced hot flush and a questionable scented candle.

Let’s set the scene: you’re exhausted, in pain, clinging to functionality like a Victorian lady on a fainting couch—if that couch were also on fire. And then, in comes a pharmacist—cheerful, efficient, slightly too enthusiastic—handing you a new prescription like it’s a Golden Ticket. A fresh start. A magic bean. A miracle in blister-pack form that promises to dull the agony or at least make it slightly more bearable while you pretend not to be melting from the inside out.

Welcome aboard the S.S. Side Effects—a luxury cruise where the destinations are mysterious, the excursions involve a lot of nausea, and your captain (aka your nervous system) is clearly drunk on its own cortisol supply.

If you live with chronic illness—particularly the prima donnas like Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) or Chiari malformation—you’ve probably already been on this voyage. You know the itinerary: amitriptyline for sleep, pregabalin for nerve pain, sertraline for mental fortitude, codeine for everything else, and a suspiciously large cast of digestive aids to mop up the mess.

But this isn’t about blaming meds—they can be lifesaving. This is about the journey. The medical roulette. The hope. The betrayal. The side effects that hit like a bad sequel to an already terrible movie. So, grab a ginger biscuit and a cup of tea. We’re diving headfirst into the absurd, exhausting, occasionally helpful world of Medication Whiplash.

Medication Whiplash: A Brief Itinerary

The first time a doctor prescribes something new, there’s hope. That giddy, ridiculous optimism that this might be the one. The medication that’ll dull the jagged edges, turn down the volume on the pain, or at the very least, make walking too the kettle feel less like training for an Everest ascent.

But chronic illness rarely offers easy wins. And every new medication arrives with a footnote: Terms and conditions apply. Side effects may include losing your grip on reality and also your bowels.

Whiplash isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. You get handed that new prescription like a birthday gift, only to wake up three days later too dizzy to blink and crying over a yoghurt commercial. You keep adjusting to new versions of “you,” only for the rug to get pulled out again.

Personally, I’ve stopped at every station on this itinerary. “Headache from serotonin reuptake hell”? Check. “Sudden explosive rage from the tiny blue one”? Been there. “Couldn’t feel my arms for an hour but was told to ‘wait it out’”? Oh yes.

Managing chronic illness often means becoming your own pharmaceutical project manager. You track side effects like they’re Pokémon, ration doses like you’re on a Victorian warship, and say things like “this one makes me dream in sepia” with a completely straight face.

And when something doesn’t work, you’re not just disappointed—you’re grieving. Because every failed medication is a maybe lost. A whisper of what if that vanishes into a bin full of discarded blister packs.

The Side Effects Buffet

Side effects are the cruise’s "entertainment lineup"—uninvited, unpredictable, and absolutely determined to ruin the buffet.

Every pill has a party trick: maybe it turns your mouth into the Mojave desert, or makes your dreams resemble a David Lynch short. Maybe it fills your gut with concrete or teaches your sweat glands to perform interpretive dance.

Here are a few personal favourites from my own pharmaceutical cabaret:

• Codeine Constipation: Less of a symptom, more of a hostage situation. Your digestive tract enters a Victorian mourning period and refuses to participate in modern life.

• Pregabalin Float Brain: Like trying to think through fog made of custard. You can’t remember your own middle name, but you’ve definitely just forgotten how spoons work.

• Amitriptyline Dry-Eye Hell: Waking up feels like being sandblasted from the inside of your skull. Blinking becomes a contact sport.

• Sertraline Sweats: Not a light misting—full-body Niagara Falls. Waking up drenched and trying to convince your partner the cat spilled something. Again.

And still—still—you take the next pill. Because the alternative is letting the pain win. Because maybe, just maybe, this one will help.

The Crew: Doctors in the Panic Era

Let’s pause for a moment and tip our metaphorical hats to the overworked crew of this cursed cruise: our GPs.

They are navigating a healthcare system that’s been duct-taped together during a pandemic, underfunded by policy, and now haunted by the ghost of the opioid crisis. Pain relief—especially with controlled meds—has become politically radioactive.

This means many doctors are terrified. Not uncaring. Just afraid to be the next cautionary headline. As a result, you might find yourself treated less like someone in pain and more like someone dangerously close to asking for fentanyl on toast.

You’re offered paracetamol. You’re gently redirected to CBT. You’re told to download an app with ambient bird sounds that somehow does not unpinch your spinal cord.

And while the fear is understandable, the result is devastating: a generation of patients left to self-advocate, self-medicate, and quietly fall apart while being praised for their “resilience.”

Opioids: Between Stigma and Survival

Let’s address the morphine-addled elephant in the room: opioids.

For many of us, these are not party drugs or lifestyle choices—they’re emergency life rafts. They allow us to function. To parent. To shower. To survive. And yet, the moment we mention them, the mood shifts. The doctor tenses. The pharmacist stares too long. Society quietly recoils.

Even when we follow the rules to the letter—low doses, no early refills, endless caution—we’re treated as suspicious.

It’s a balancing act performed on a tightrope stretched between public fear and personal agony. We’re not the faces in the headlines. We’re the ones trying to stay alive without losing our dignity, quietly hoping the next refill doesn’t come with a lecture.

Because most of us would gladly give these meds up—if we had literally any other viable option.

The Quiet Reality

Strip away the jokes, the metaphors, the medical acronyms—and what’s left is just this: a person sitting on the edge of their bed at 2 a.m., wondering whether it’s worth risking another dose.

It’s the quiet exhaustion of constantly shifting symptoms. The grief of losing your old self in stages. The guilt of needing help. The fear of being seen as weak. The whispered doubts that sound like your voice but came from somewhere else entirely.

This isn’t drama. This is reality. And you’re not imagining it. You’re not exaggerating. You’re surviving something relentless. And that counts.

Conclusion – Your Final Port

So here we are. Still afloat. The ship’s leaking sarcasm, and the lifeboats are full of prescription disclaimers, but you’re doing it.

This journey doesn’t end with a miracle cure. It ends—if at all—with understanding. With better systems. With voices like yours being heard. Until then, we muddle through with spreadsheets, sarcasm, and shared humanity.

Here’s to you: fellow cruiser, reluctant alchemist of pharmaceuticals, soft-shelled warrior. May your next medication be effective, your side effects mild, and your GP shockingly competent.

Bon voyage. Don’t forget your antiemetics. Or your sense of humour.

Bonus Lifeboats: Resources, Support & Further Reading

Need help navigating this nonsense? Here are a few trusted UK-based resources:

• Pain Concern – Charity offering information and support for people with chronic pain.

• Versus Arthritis – Support for musculoskeletal conditions including EDS.

• EDS Support UK – The go-to charity for Ehlers-Danlos info, support groups, and resources.

• Mind UK – Mental health support, especially helpful for medication-related anxiety or burnout.

• NHS Medicines A–Z – The official rundown of what you’re taking and what it’s doing to your sweat glands.