Medicine Go Down
I sometimes have the thought that I should be back on medication, and now is one of those times. Coming out of my skin while also feeling like I don’t have the energy to leave my apartment is annoying. I feel terrible for being at home, for “listening to my body,” for “taking a day.” I don’t even know what that means at this point, because it’s not like I rest. I check my phone constantly because I feel like I can’t handle not being distracted because my brain is begging for the stimulation, but also feeling like I run a marathon when mindlessly scrolling through a sea of shit that doesn’t make me feel any kind of serotonin. Is this what addiction feels like? Doing something bad to yourself but not being able to stop even though you have the awareness it isn’t good?
When people say they can stop smoking cigarettes whenever they want, but never seem to want to, that’s essentially what I’m doing but with my phone. Who am I without it? Who am I when I’m not trying to tell people who I am? I don’t know. I think that’s why I enjoy Instagram because you don’t necessarily have to tell people anything - you show them. I show The Void tiny corners of my world; of my mind.
The medication would help me feel nothing. I hated being on it because I remember the slow process of the highs not feeling high and the lows not feeling low. Everything felt the same, monotone. I’ve tried Prozac and Zoloft, Paxil (briefly), and Lexapro. For a little while, I was also prescribed an anti-anxiety medication, Ativan. The one thing I remembered about being on these different medications was that I felt like with being on them, people could actively see I was trying. I was in therapy, too. I wanted for so long to be better, and I wanted something to show for it. I didn’t know if it was the right move for me, but I also don’t know if it was the wrong one. I’m not medicated now and while I’m still peppered with days that leave me locked in my room for extended periods of time, they are fewer and farther between.
I haven’t had a psychogenic non-epileptic event since last year, and that’s stellar. The main reason why I was so adamant about being put on medication and going to therapy all those years ago was that I knew what my body was doing had nothing to do with my brain or my neurological system. I knew these lookalike seizures were my body’s psychosomatic response to undiagnosed and unresolved trauma but hadn’t been able to stick with a therapist long enough to dig into the meat of why I was the way that I was. I shouldn’t have written that in the past tense because I still am not certain why I am the way that I am, or how my trauma has affected me. I just know I don’t trust anyone the way I trust myself. I think that’s why I’m constantly letting it (the trauma) define me, even silently so. I allow it to keep me from trusting those who show they love and care for me. I give it the power to stop any long-lasting relationship, platonic or otherwise, for one reason or another. It’s sad, and lately, I’ve felt the frustration with myself pour out for the world at large to see. I could feel myself being angry which was never something I actively acknowledged growing up. I didn’t have the space to be angry. I was too caught up in being hurt and saddened by it. The sadness took a really long time to develop into anger because the sadness was never healed, merely locked away.
Now, a full-grown adult (anger) who’s been locked in a closet for years since childhood (sadness) is banging through the door, evolved and ready to fuck something (me?) up.