Day 1 of taking antidepressants.
Suddenly there is a filter. As I’m writing this I hear only the words themselves as I write them and they don’t go bouncing off in every direction like they ‘normally’ would in my head.
When I start thinking whatever is not so necessary, the thought gets absorbed by something. Like a sponge, I would say.
For the first time in forever, things are 80% quiet in my mind. 20% are the thoughts that are more valid, those that I really need to urgently decide on.
For example, I’ve been to the groceries, and where a billion parallel universes could already have emerged somewhere just from my thinking of them aloud while waiting for the queue to move on, today there were only 10 or less of those imagined possibilities.
This is all so damn strange. The only other time this sort of happens is when I push a sweet chaturanga during yoga. But even then, as soon as I shift to a comfortable pose like the downward dog, the thoughts would come back to me crying like starved baby birds. Ugh.
To cut the drama short, I finally went to the psychiatrist. I was shaking basically as we talked. It’s a miracle at all that some words came out of me, enough for him to see the depths of the problems.
The good boi of a doctor said I’m too guarded. He said my smile is fake? Which was not untrue but it caught me off guard to hear it. Are these people really so straightforward? Anyway, after much ado, we talked about meds. He put me on the lowest dose of antidepressants. And I have to go back soon with the results of so many lab tests. And then we talk again. God, talking.
I’m kind of, really, really kind of, petrified by all this. I came out of the clinic quite upset and I had to be reminded that I should be proud of myself.
My trip to that clinic has been long overdue by years and years.
I think of the last time my mind has ever been as laid-back as waking up in this morning after taking my first pill. This 80% quiet and 20% thoughts. I remember life was good and far ahead of me, while doing nothing but eating cassava cakes sitting by the back door of the house I grew up in. I would eat and feel so tiny and watch our ducks. I was 3 years old. That’s 20 years ago.
10 years ago I had a traumatic summer. And that’s the hardcore force behind all this fine fuckery that I must brave. Last year, I was full-blown depressed from summer through midyear, and it was really dark. It’s not the first time I was that down in the dumps. But it’s probably the first time I actually feared for my life. And it seemed not a soul cared. Or at least, it seemed nobody could get a damn clue. Certain things slowly lifted me out of that funk. When I say slow, I mean that carbon dioxide saturates the atmosphere far more quickly by the minute, and it’s not going to slow down, and that’s the way I feel at times, that the whole world gangs up on me. That it’s getting poisonous by the day. That I just need it to pause for a minute. Find some fresh, unpolluted air.
I have this blog. And it’s among the few precious things that came out of last year. I said I’m not a talker so I will write as fierce as I can here, instead.
Talk of good friends. Friends are jewels, dear reader (whoever you are). My old friend helped me to go to that clinic and come out of it in one piece. I believe he would have dragged me, if he had to, for my own good. This friend has known me for a long time. We used to win math quizzes and spent most years having that competitive streak. So he’s seen me at my sharpest and also my most vulnerable. Sometimes because of my really downtrodden mood, I cannot even reply to his texts. But a friend is a friend is a friend.