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( Pills and my analytical nature-}
{2003-04-04} {2:35 a.m.}
Someone once said: "The pills are for your sanity." Perhaps they are, but for whatever reason they don't seem to be working for me. Well, what I should say is that when a number of them are given to me in large doses they don't seem to work.
I've got the pink pills. Those are the Serequell for when my nightmares and sleep is at its worst.[100 mg] I've got my blue pills. Those are the Zoloft.[150 mg] I've got the large white pills. Those are the Trazadone.[300 mg] I've got the tiny, white pills that smell funny. Those are the Larazapam.[30 mg] I got sick of the headaches, drowsiness and over sleeping [With the constant bitching of my caseworker] and said "fuck it" and shoved it into the back of the medicine cabinet behind the Advil and Tylenol. I just couldn’t function properly. I had to take a stand for myself, on my own. Because no one was listening to me.
My psychiatrist is truly convinced that she can correct the compound side of my depression by the way of prescription medication. She thinks somewhere out there in the land of anti-depressants there is a perfect concoction that will refurbish me to a baseline mood that will permit me to live a moderately pleasing life. [She should try taking what I am on]
I keep trying to persuade my psychiatrist that the chemical imbalance has been addressed enough and that maybe it's just my innate nature to function in a lower, more depressed mood. I'm a misanthropist and a worrier. I think about things too much. I'm clinically depressed and sometimes prefer to be alone. I'm someone who likes to explore individual emotions and who finds the darker ones to be the most interesting. [Those being the ones I always have a closer connection to] All of these are personality traits that can't be cured by throwing medication at them. Hell, if they could be cured I would worry, because it would seem like you're curing me of me. I am not of a sound or glorious nature. I am just me.
A long time ago I just sort of accepted that fact that I wouldn't get much pleasure out of life and that simple things that can make others happy probably won't have the same effect on me. I chalked it up to an error in my personality, not as some lack of neurotoxin in my brain.
Medication doesn't tell me why I don't feel much affection for myself. Medication can't explain how I can be so emotional around people and push them away when all I want is for someone to understand me. Medication can't make me find joy and pleasure in life. Pills don't make the tears stop. Pills are just that…pills. Something of a chemical nature to convince the mind of individuals that they are self lacking and need to thrive on medication to be “normal’ Life is so multifaceted and I don’t predominantly see how any kind of medication can cure that. Pills. Psychiatrists. Therapists. Life. [Go figure.] No one is going to win the rat race on existence.
Isn't it all just angst of brooding and fighting amongst our inner self? I come to the realization that no matter how hard I try to contemplate on it all. Nothing is going to “cure” me, but me.
-Easier said than Done-