I’m convinced that I should sue some motherfucker.
When I started taking these not-so-little pink pills, I had no clue what I was in for, and no one informed me, either. I had expectations, sure, and I read about all of the potential adverse reactions and side effects (not that Psychoghandi felt it was necessary to tell me about any of them. But, that’s what Dr. Google and The Mayo Clinic are for, right?), but never did I think I would be sitting here, feeling like this. Just from one pill, daily.
No one told me that one morning I would wake up and not be looking over my shoulder for the signs of impending doom. There wasn’t any bold or fine print explaining that I would catch my profile in the full-length mirror, see my hipbones poking out over my jeans that have grown too loose again, and think, “hey, you should eat some more”. Neither Psychoghandi or my regular doctor ever informed me that I would be able to sit still, to move around, to pick up messes, to speak calmly to my daughter in the face of her anxious anger, to think clearly, to feel unmotivated and sluggish one day and still choose to go out in the world.
I want to know why none of these supposed experts who have been putting out, prescribing and making money off of this medication for decades thought it was relevant to let on that these pills have a very strong side effect: mental health. And worse, secondary to that, the need for identity invention.
See, when you’ve been crazy for three-quarters of your life, that’s kind of the person you are. When you’re manic, you’re hopped up on speedballs, minus the deviated septum; when you’re depressed, you’re pretty good at sleeping a lot. When something’s stressful, the house is eat-off-the-floor clean and the grout is bleached with Q-Tips; when there’s no stressors, some get invented. When you feel fat, you drop thirty pounds, until you’re the same weight as your friend’s eight year old. When you feel too skinny… well, you never feel too skinny, you just pretend to, so that people will get off your back about being too skinny – so you perform amazing feats involving cheeseburgers and potato chips and cheesecake, all the while knowing how much self-hatred (and therefore cleaning) you’re bringing upon yourself.
Now what do I have left?
They don’t tell you, when they say that you should give Depakote a try and that you’ve got ADD and Borderline tendencies and Major Affective Disorder which is more than Cyclothymia and not quite as bad as Bipolar Type I, but worse than Bipolar Type II, that you’ll end up getting healthy and have to become someone.
It’s scary as fuck.
It’s enlightening and boldening and magical, too. It’s like watching Zoë grow up, seeing myself in the mirror – the same kind of things hit me: that girl’s really good at _______, she’s really into ________, she cares passionately about ________, and she’s probably never going to be the kind of person who _______________.
It’s like I’ve been in a coma for 22 years, my personality stunted, and magically, I woke up in this damaged body, with a moth-eaten past and the world and light-years ahead of me.
Yes, it’s been a long time in the works, and I’ve been making some slow progress, but being still plagued by the symptoms these pills are treating seemed to be the thing that held me back.
And then one day, I woke up, not looking over my shoulder for the moody boogie-man. I saw myself in the mirror as I was making decaffeinated tea and thought that my hipbones weren’t meant to prod the waist of my size 0s downward. I sat, still, and I thought, clearly. I walked around and picked up toys and dropped them into a pile in Zoë’s room, for whenever she felt like putting them away, and then I was done and didn’t need to organize them into their pre-determined homes. I had a negative day when it was raining and I was a bit sad and I curled up with Zoë and I called a best friend and we went out to soothe my soul with fresh air and puddles.
Everything now seems less about coping and more about living. Gone seem the days of waiting for things to get better or worse, and instead, I’m left with the knowledge that whatever I get will be the product of what I create. Even though I’m sad about a few things – money’s still tight, I miss some people, seeing people hurting themselves and others – I’m actually, genuinely, authentically happy.
What the fuck is that?
Even though I still had a shitty childhood and I’ve been hurt multiple times by people, it’s become like… unimportant. That’s not the right word, but the only other way that I can describe it might be offensive in a secular way: This is the year 1 A.D., and everything that came before was prehistory, going way back to 29 B.D.
There’s a concept in AA: humiliation vs humility. I’ve always walked around, humiliated. Scarred and prepared for others to either pity or turn up their noses because of the choices I’ve made and the ways that I was marred or defective. Today, a few days ago, last week, I felt humility: a clear, concise inventory of who I am now and who I have been, and the overwhelming will to be someone that I am proud of and inspired by. It’s like, I’ve gotten better, so now it’s transparent how I can be someone better.
So. I sort of get to start from seven years old again, creating myself, my hopes and dreams, my family and my future. Kind of like being a mother to myself. And Mommy is Moody seemed so last year that I think it’s time to join some of the other cool kids and rebrand this little space as Raising Zoeyjane.
