Well, balls. The last two weeks have been a shitshow of anxiety, tears and unwanted exercise (read: moving). I’ve allowed myself the grace to have a meltdown as I’m making so many ambitious / impetuous / scary AF adjustments to my reality – closing most of it down and starting over, to be specific. But, the amount of times I’ve broken down in a mess of sobs over absolutely anything – or nothing, for that matter – borders absurdity.
Several days into my emotional diatribe aimed mostly at – who else? – myself, I had a burst of anger over my feelings. Sure, I had shit going down, and it seemed to be reasonable – if not predictable – that I would be, at the very least, a bit unbalanced as I moved through it all. But this was deeper than feeling stress about my situation – I was feeling hopelessness.
What the actual hell?
It was then I realized I hadn’t taken my self-declared “happy pills” in nearly two weeks. Huh.
Now, I’m not starting a discussion about medication here – not interested in hopping on that train of debate, Mr. Cruise. But I will say, in my life those 20mg of Lexapro I pop every day? Magic.
So, once I realized I had been forgetful at best – careless at worst, when it comes to the chalky white pill that seems to make such a major difference in my life, I saw I could eradicate – or at least lessen – some of my struggles. After all, I was implicit in them without even knowing it – not in the creation of my problems, but certainly in the augmentation of them.
And, now, placebo or otherwise – I don’t seem to care right at the moment, thank you very much – I understand that my mental being is on the way to being a little bit better. And while it takes more than a day or two to settle back into my crazy-lady system, just knowing it’s on the way stopped the all-out bawling.
And that’s crazy good because I was starting to scare my friends who are so gracious to let me stay at their house this week. Because truthfully? There are better ways to get them.