by June

So apparently there is another reason for my lack of productivity as of late, aside from laziness, aside from procrastination;

I decided to speak to a therapist today, after weeks now of too much emotion, after weeks of just wanting to curl over like a dead fish and do nothing the rest of my life, after weeks of staring out a window or staring at the pages of a book, uncomprehending, wanting to cry, swinging back and forth between a dozen moods a minute – it’s no big deal, I’m sure, I told her, but I feel like it’s getting worse. I know it’s probably nothing, I said. I know I’m probably just being dramatic.

“I think you’re minimizing the issue,” she responded. And what do I know? Maybe I am. I’ve been treated for depression and anxiety on and off since my youth, and I don’t know how to trust my own thoughts anymore. I don’t know what a normal thought might be versus a depressed one.

She recommended I see a psychiatrist, and later that day, after talking to me for a mere twenty minutes, the psychiatrist prescribed me wellbutrin xl. It’s your choice to take it, he said. I just want to feel better, I said, feeling confused. Feeling defeated.

I picked up the prescription from my pharmacy and got into my car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I opened the bottle and took out a pill, bringing it up to my mouth, pausing, bringing my hand back down. I stared at the pill, resting complacently in my palm like a miniature emblem of failure. Failure to take care of my problems on my own, failure to be normal, failure to follow through on anything, failure even to know my own self well enough to be confident this was the right choice. I brought it up to my lips a second time and then shook my head and stopped again. It was as if my hand and my mind were two separate things, fighting one another. I looked down at the pill in my palm and then lifted my head, staring silently out my window, running my fingertips against my lips and then resting them on my temple. And I began to cry.

I thought I could take care of this issue myself. I thought I could be better. And maybe I am better, and I just don’t know how it feels to be normal, and this is normal. Maybe I’m medicating because I’m afraid of the way my life is right now and I think this will be a solution. Or maybe I’m medicating because I’m afraid of myself right now, and what I could do, how I could fall back into old habits. In an effort to interrupt the flurry of thoughts that was beginning to circle in my mind and could soon become a full-on storm, I quickly placed the pill on my tongue and let it sit there for a moment, then threw my head back and swallowed.

I’m terrified of my life right now. I dont know if I’m depressed or in transition. But I know I don’t feel ok.