Last night I took a whole bunch of vitamins. I take B-12, B-6 and five fish oil capsules. I was laying in bed. I thought: “Did I take the medication?” Of course I did.
This morning when I went down stairs I looked at the pill box. I had skipped them. Dammit.
I know what this means and I don’t like it. For at least the next three days I will be off. I won’t be able to think, I’ll cry when even a little thing hurts me or upsets me. I am a mess right now. I’ve stopped crying but haven’t started dancing, and it’s a happy time and I’m not participating in it because I can’t. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. But I discovered last night that among the pictures I took only seventeen were readable. Devastating. I couldn’t get either one of the cameras my parents gave me to work consistently, even when I replaced the batteries. Stressful. We went to the Hanging of the Greens at church and I used Mr. Malakoa’s cell phone to take pictures and there was no flash. Tragic. My good friend and her husband are separating. They have six kids. Distressing. All of this would have been like water off a duck’s bath, but not without my meds.
Meds don’t really change my personality though, they really don’t. Of course I wouldn’t be crying all the time in my “right” mind. I don’t want this kind of ‘self’. I am much happier with these medications than I could ever be, more even and even happier with them. I’m not always happy, but I have the choice to be happy. Without meds I can’t hold it together. My true self is not a crier, I’m not miserable and I’m not struck by the grief of life. Without meds I have to cry, be miserable and make others grief my grief. It’s not a position where I can live well and help others. (I do not like that quality in people. I feel that people who cry all the time do so because it makes everything be about them. This is not helpful.) With medication I am able to hold it together enough to minister to others in their distressed states. I want to be able to do these things. I cannot be anything I want to be to anyone when I am sick.
Except I can remember this time when things are better. I can fight my way out of it and tell others why and how I did it. I’ll be okay soon, so long as I remember all that I have done to sink to the depths and risen to some sort of normalcy. I’ll never be “normal” it’s just not who I am, but I will be able to do things like go to the grocery store without filling the basket with various chocolates, potato chips, sodas and bacon. I’d like to be able to listen to someone else talk and empathize, rather than just falling apart. I want all these things and they aren’t an option in a depressed state. Or a mixed state. I have to be careful.
But being careful is not fun. This means I have to go to bed earlier than usual. It means trying with all my might to wash, dry and fold and put away laundry. It can take hours and hours to do so. It means fights with my husband. It means my daughter telling me, “I know what will make you happy!” and going to get her favorite blanket or stickers for my book-making. That hurts the most. I am happy to see she’s a child with empathy, but don’t want her to remember me like this – constantly needy, in bed or eating. I don’t want to nurture a burgeoning co-dependent. I want her to be confident, Godly and loving. Am I providing this kind of home for her? How can I?