I tried not taking my depression medication.
As of now, I am currently taking…(as I literally count how many on my hands)…4 things of pills. I take my thyroid one in the morning, an hour before I eat. When I do eat, I swallow my water pill, and down 3 “reishi” pills. Then, I eat again. Three more “reishi” pills. Then finally, before tucking myself away for the night, I knock back half of my Zoloft, and off to sleep I go.
How did I go from taking just one pill to downing nine a day? Well, the one said pill is the root of all my problems, but still. I liked having one pill to take. Really, I did.
I had told my doctor a few weeks ago, “hey, I’d like to be off Zoloft…I think I don’t need it anymore”. And the fact that it was gaining me weight.
“Why? CLEARLY you’re depressed,” he huffed at me.
Mind you, he had just told me my weight was now “out of control”, it was as if I looked like the mom from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape or something. I miss being somewhat thin. I do. The saddest day, or, one of them anyway, was the day I could no longer fit into my favorite pair of American Eagle jeans that I’ve had since freshman year of HIGH SCHOOL. They were butterfly-soft, always closed despite me being bloated, and were always my go-to jeans. And I could no longer fit in them.
Aside from the past, I’d like to talk about the present–how I feel now, at this moment, with a kink in my neck and sipping Cherry Coke Zero, and essentially looking like a bum.
I decided I didn’t need the Zoloft, but there are some days where I’m just wrong. I sat there in my bed for a good ten minutes, staring off into some unknown place in my mind. I had no clue what I was thinking about–I was thinking about the future, that’s for sure. Or how I think my major’s a joke. Or how about not gathering everyone for my 22nd birthday dinner in two weeks?
Wait. I’m not even excited about my birthday.
Anyway. I asked my stepdad last night if he was able to come to dinner on that Saturday after my birthday. He looked at the calendar, and without a clear answer, he asked, “Who’s all goin’?”
“Well,” I paused, “There’ll be you, and mom, and Tony, too. Dad and Kathy, and hopefully Kevin.”
He huffed. He asked me something along the lines of when I was going to stop doing dinners together as a “family”. I asked if he was serious, and he looked at me, picked up some hunting magazine and went to the living room, with my dog trailing behind him.
I thought about it last night–maybe I’m too old to keep things that were once familiar to me close, like having a dinner for my birthday. We used to do Christmas together, and at the start it was just me, Tony, my mom and dad. My stepdad would go to his daughter’s house in Toledo for Christmas morning, and for a while, I got to soak in a brief morning of togetherness again. Then when my dad re-married for the first time, we attempted having my ex-stepmother over and my stepdad for Christmas morning, but obviously it wasn’t the same, so we nixed that all together.
Birthdays, it seems, were the only thing I had left. And now, at (almost) 22, I’m asked when I’ll let it go, and when I’ll do stuff separate, because apparently, nobody can get along with each other, or they simply feel left out when they clearly shouldn’t be.
As I type all of this, I admit; my eyes are borderline overflowing with tears. It’s not the lack of Zoloft, but the lack of familiarity in my life, or whatever’s left of it.
Whenever I think about it, I always promise to myself I will never do this to my kids–being tossed around like soccer balls between goal posts for homes and forcing them to divide their birthdays and Christmas’s isn’t exactly fair. Should the inevitable come and somehow they are where I am, I’ll try and make their birthdays and Christmas’s and anything else important to them someone they can grasp onto, no matter if they were 10 or 35 years old.
And then, to change the subject, I thought about the future, and if I’m truly happy with everything.
First, though, let me clarify the difference between being ‘happy’ and ‘blessed’, because everyone I’ve ever approached with my problems has told me countlessly, “You’re blessed!”.
Being ‘happy’ is when you have a smile on your face, and you find something/someone that you really enjoy, and you find yourself laughing, and you make the most of little things. Being happy almost feels like being lucky, because things go your way and the sun is smiling down on you, and it seems like there’s not a cloud in the sky. You could literally make your own sunshine on a rainy day, with whatever you enjoy doing.
Being ‘blessed’ is having a good family. A good home. The opportunity to do things that others cannot do, or being able to achieve things that no one else can. Being blessed simply means that you don’t have it hard–like having a car or a bed to sleep in.
I am blessed. I can’t even count on my hands how many things I’ve been granted with–I have nice parents, I get to go to college, I have a car, a few good friends…but really, some fill me with the happiness I crave and other times they just don’t. Though, I do have a theory–I think that the more blessed you are with life, the less happier you seem to be. I don’t get to enjoy the little things because I’m blessed with the bigger things, you know? Some people beat this theory, and yet, some live it; have you seen celebrities and how unhappy they are, despite them having a Rolls-Royce car or their own jet plane?
And then I always think of the status of my book. Or story, since it’s not actually published. I’ve written this story to death, I’ve thought about the plot over and over again, I’ve tweaked the details and tighten up the twists to the point where they’re ready to snap in my face and simply not make sense. I have no clue how J.K Rowling did it, but fuck, man. I want her skill. I want her determination to sit down and write like a boss. Here’s hoping I get it someday. 😦
I need tips on how to live my life, and they would be greatly appreciated in the comments section below.