Tuesday, June 03, 2008

On The Topic We No Longer Speak Of...

I haven't written about my emotional state in quite some time. I'm not really sure why: perhaps it is that I no longer feel entirely comfortable telling The Internet what's up with me.

I quit taking my CrazyMeds sometime in April. Maybe it was March. I'm not sure. But it's been a while, and you know what? I'VE BEEN JUST FINE.

I have to say that the first phenomenon in no longer being medicated is crying. I've started crying again, and I don't look at that as a bad thing. At first crying for me was almost euphoric. I spent some time seeing an individual this winter, and after I had determined that we could no longer spend time together, I did not cry. Weeks later, off my meds, I could cry about everything.

I weep in happiness, in frustration, in agony, in complete and utter joy. One time this spring, a Bad Thing happened to my dearest friend, and I wept for three days consecutively.

I have to say that I was so overcome with joy every time I cried because I WAS ACTUALLY ABLE TO CRY, that my tears would occasionally be short lived and I would be happy again. Three minutes of crying equals forty five minutes of joy.

For a period of weeks, that's how it went. Weeping, glee, weeping, glee, weeping, glee, sleep.

The night that I spent three hours crying because the farrier hadn't arrived in time for me to ride my horse kind of spoke to me, though. And after that night I stopped crying, because sometimes weeping inconsolably because someone is late for an appointment is a little over the top. (But only sometimes. The rest of the time? Entirely appropriate.)

I've started trying to be a grownup and face what makes me feel the way I feel. It is hard to take responsibility for what you've done in your life; it is equally hard to accept the things that have been beyond your control.

The hardest part for me is to not think catastrophically. Apparently, that's what I do. I won't be able to find something to wear to work in the morning, and then I'll be thinking of how my coworkers view me, and then all of a sudden I'll be hyperventilating and picturing myself homeless under a bridge. And I'll lay down on my bed and cry, thinking that I'm destined to end up a toothless, homeless, smelly person who hasn't conditioned her hair in weeks because I can't find a pair of pants to put on.

Part of staying sane has involved me putting myself on a regular laundry-doing regime, because otherwise I would start every day in the fashion described above.

I'm not sure any more where The Crazy fits into my life. I'm sure it will pop up again; I believe that a time will come when I'll need the assistance of my trusty CrazyMeds once more. But for now I'm just me being me, unmedicated and in my glory.

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