I've resisted being completely open in this blog of late, mostly as a result of feeling a little inhibited by certain readership. I don't want you to:
- judge me
- use my honest words as evidence that I was, am, and always will be a fucking nutjob
- categorize me as some sort of ridiculous emo girl
I started fantasizing about starting another blog--one in which no one knew who I was. Then I thought, "Fuck that! I should write whatever I feel, other people's perceptions be damned!"
I recently lost a handwritten journal that I was keeping. God only knows where it ended up. Although I don't believe there was any identifying information in it, I found myself cringing when I thought of strangers reading the words I so earnestly and privately wrote. Then I thought, "Fuck that, too! If the things I wrote are shocking or disturbing to someone then they need to stop living such a one-dimensional life!"
Then I thought, "I spend a lot of time shouting at myself and at and about hypothetical others. Perhaps I should stop this."
Onward to the real point of this ranting madness...
Unfortunately, I acted very stupidly in the last few days. I know perfectly well that when you stop taking psychotropic medication that you have to taper off of it gradually. I've been very responsible about this in the past, but this time I wasn't. I just stopped, and I really suffered for it.
To be honest, I always kind of laughed when I heard commercials for antidepressants that said, "Stopping this medication abruptly can lead to adverse effects, including thoughts of suicide. If you experience this, call your doctor immediately." It wasn't that I doubted that this side effect was true, it's just that it seemed ridiculous and unrealistic to be self-aware enough during a severe depressive state to think, "Oh! Thoughts of killing myself just popped into my head. I need to jump on that. The proactive worm avoids jumping off the bridge!" My laughter was sardonic because those two states of mind just don't go together, in my experience.
They were definitely right about that side effect and, for better or worse, I was right about the fundamental incompatibility of those two mental spaces. But even if I weren't, what would one say?
"I'm wondering if going to that edge, literally and figuratively, would be enough to scare me into normalcy? Or would it be just that last push over?"
How can you succinctly and sufficiently describe the wide-eyed mute terror that leaves you grasping for something, anything, anyone? It all seems so real and overwhelming when curled up in a ball in the dark. Trying to describe it in the harsh light of day to a loving friend makes me feel ridiculous.