While I feel empowered by talking about my depression, about accepting my depression, and about growing from my depression……I utterly despise that part of myself.
Sometimes I honestly think that my pharmacist slips placebo pills into my pill bottles. Occasionally, it’s like my meds simply do not work. Now, there are times when I do not take my medication as I should. Many people whom rely on medication to make them “right” tend to test the theory of whether or not meds are still needed. So when I test it and my symptoms rear THEIR ugly side…… My bad! But when I take them and they don’t work……. Who is to blame?
The past few days have been a constant, non-stop ride on a rickety struggle bus. Anxiety attacks, a “resting” heart rate of 95 bpm, and crying while sitting in a seminar because the room is simply too cold.
My brain, in my opinion, is trying to end me. It’s scary to say, and I’m positive even scarier to read for some of you, but it really is trying. And sometimes, it comes startlingly close to convincing me.
Today, as I drove back to my home I had apparently stopped at a rest stop. Not one of my routine rest stops, an unfamiliar one. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t get out. I didn’t even shut off the car or take off my seatbelt. Next thing I know, as I “came to” I started crying because I couldn’t even remember driving to where I was. What I could remember was the thought of driving my car into the picnic area until it was stopped by something stronger than the gas pedal. No, there were no people in the picnic area (I’m not that much of a monster). But for how ever long, it just all seemed so right. So simple. So…….. Easy.
Sometimes……. I’m scared. Many times…… I’m scarred. And more and more, I feel as if I am forgetting who I am. More and more the “sometimes” gets closer to “every time”.