And How’s Your Summer Going?
I’m at a weird point in my life, and in the words of Rihanna’s new song (which I’m listening to right now) I’m not really sure how to feel about it.
What have I been doing this summer so far? I couldn’t even tell you. Somehow I manage to keep myself busy, with these graduation parties stacking up, and my job search, and my boyfriend to educate me in Doctor Who. But I’m waiting for that point where there is not a day with something planned, where boredom will pull the rug out from under me and leave me stranded and alone to my own will. Days like that are sometimes the hardest, because if I just lie there my mind will start to race and drowned me in helplessness. What I mean by that is, anxiety-ridden thoughts will keep coming uncontrollably.
Thoughts like, “God, what are you doing? How can you stand to just lie here, when deep down you know that this is an unforgettable time of your life–where childhood falls away and exposes you to the outside world, ready to sculpt you into this adult you’ve been waiting to become–and you are wasting it. You are wasting your life. When school comes around you’ll start complaining about how you never have time and miss the summer, and you’re not even doing anything. What the hell is wrong with you?!”
It’s inevitable, and it kills me. Luckily, one of my close friends just parted with some of her collection of books, so I have a nice stack that I plan on finishing this summer. I also am going to try to go back to the gym like I used to, and become healthier. I just have to keep the motivation to do those things. Sometimes, even though my restless anxiety makes me feel awful, I’m too lazy to stop it. I’ll just lie there, soaking up each blow against my self-worth until I fall asleep.
I’m not taking my medicine, either. Which is absolutely terrible, because what if another mental-breakdown just pops up out of nowhere (see post “Crazy.”)? That was unbelievably scary, and I don’t want a repeat of it. Why am I not taking the meds though? Well, I ran out of my prescription, see, and wasn’t able to get another doctor’s appointment until a month later, because I forgot about a previous appointment I scheduled months in advance. So I had been taking some of my dad’s medication (which is the exact same thing I take, only in a smaller dosage). But that took a toll on his supply, and I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get his own prescription fast enough, so I just stopped taking his. If my mother knew this, she’d go ape-shit. She doesn’t understand, though. If anything, she enforces my hyper-active guilty conscience by shoving my mistakes in my face all the time. I know she’s my mom, and that’s her job, but she talks to me like I don’t realize I make these mistakes. I do, to an unhealthy extreme. But she doesn’t understand that.
I want to stop taking meds. I want to be normal, in control. I’m tired of having these chemicals correct my brain. I wish I never found out my brain is messed up. People don’t forgive you for that. If I had a missing limb, or an internal condition like diabetes or something, no one would blame me. They’d try to be sympathetic and maybe even help me. But in the case of mental illnesses, it makes you a freak. No one tries to understand it, they just shun it or want to drug you numb. And I hate it. I hate it so much.
Someday, if I have a house or a husband or a kid or all three, my depression will affect it all. I will probably never want to be home to avoid anxiety, or be home all the time, and never want to leave my bed. I will have to explain to my husband why I’d drive home crying and screaming, when earlier I was laughing and smiling. I will have to hide my tears from my child, and look at them, hoping they missed my genetic flaw. And I don’t want to do any of that.
I don’t really know where I stand religion-wise now, but back in my days of God-believing, I would have said that he made me strong enough to do this. And that he gave me all this love I have in my heart so I will be able to hold together my family and my life in times of struggle. And I believe I can do this, whether it is a God-given strength or my own. I just don’t want to, though.
Well, everyone has something they whine about…guess depression is mine. Maybe by the time I go to college I’ll have learned to just get over the weaknesses I will always have from my depression. I feel like such an idiot every time I complain about them (because who the hell really cares, you know?), so here’s to hoping I’ll do it!