“How are you doing?”
The voice yanks me out of my own anxiety bubble. Hmm?
“You seemed down yesterday,” my group mate continued scribbling on the daily assessment sheet.
“Oh…” I poked my feet into the ground in a nervous twitch, “Ehh..yeah, I’m good.”
My lips find their way to the placebo coffee I always grabbed on my way into the program. It was a distraction from the empty room that morning. I hadn’t taken my Trazodone in three days, and anxiety was back to clawing at the base of my legs like a lost puppy. The walls were closing in around me.
In group therapy you’re suppose to talk about your problems, but I always felt bad when I talked about myself. I don’t want to explain the depressing history of my life because I hate the facial expressions people cannot control. When they hear of the things I’ve been through in only twenty-two years, they are baffled at how I managed to survive on my own. And the truth is…by a single thread.
Because being me, means my hands are shaking as the room fills up with people I don’t know, so I fill the silence with nervous habits of crossing my legs over and over again, or playing with my hair – poking at split ends. Sometimes I just freak out and I escape to the bathroom like I’ve always done as a kid.
Being me, means having mood swings and destroying everything like a fucking hurricane intent on leaving nothing but disaster behind. One moment I’m fine, and the next, I’m ready to pop your head like a balloon, because I’m just tired…
I’m tired of everything and everyone and sometimes I can’t even move. I dream of all the things I want to accomplish, while I’m sleeping through that time to do them. And I ask myself why I do this – because I know better – but it’s like my brain has decided to take the month off. So I roll with it. What else is there to do?
These medications have my head in a haze. I don’t even know if they’re working. I’m sitting on the floor, like I’ve always done, searching this plain room for an answer I know I’ll never find. And I can feel depression clawing at the brick wall that this Prozac has created in the past month. It holds off the true effects of the disease; I can now lose myself in depressing thoughts without feeling a damn thing. Is that a positive? I’m not sure anymore.
So now I’m simply going through the motions with little to no feeling at all. It’s a better change than feeling everything so intensely, but does that mean it’s helping? Or am I just making myself believe it does?