Last year I went on medication for my anxiety. Last week the doctor looked me straight in the eye and asked “Do you want something for the depression?”
I’ve heard such bad things about depression medicines that I had resisted. I had resisted for so long. Not that I think medication is a joke. There’s just the side effects, especially my favorite of “May cause depression”. Plus there’s always been that voice in the back of my head going “Well, perhaps other people need it. Sure they do. You’ve never attempted suicide, or even thought about doing it. That much.”
That voice was likely Depression. Or Anxiety, who is pretty fucking quiet these days.
But daily medicine feels like exercise to me. If I have to make myself do something every day, I could just be working harder. Oh, no. I do not judge you who does it. You have your reasons. I’m just a person without reasons. You know. I’m worse than you. You, you do what you have to do. I do it because I’m selfish.
Again, likely the nasty voice of Depression.
So, I am on a drug. A drug for Depression. I can tell that nasty fucker-of-relatives is still hanging around back there. But it’s a little quieter. A little more subdued, or at least a little more overwhelmed by a part of my brain going “Fuck you, Depression. And you too, Anxiety. Fuck you both.”
Saying that I’m well or that I’m “fixed” after a week would be a lie. Saying that I’m not worse, or at least not the same would be a lie. I am better. Is it a lot better? Scales are weird. Am I different? Yes, and for that I am a bit grateful.
Roughly $10 a month for these two meds. All hail insurance. And as far as I can tell, I’m lucky enough to just be a little sleepier. but then again, that could be the occasional staying up until 2 or 3 am playing Magic. But let’s blame the drugs. It can be our little secret.