Late night revelation

I take Zoloft.  I’ve been on medication for ten years, but have just started Zoloft recently.  I’m still on an increasing dose, although where I am now seems pretty good most days.  I’m trying to determine if I like where I am right now or if I should continue the increase.

Some days I feel like the medication is not working very well.  It’s so difficult to describe, but I feel un-medicated.  I am used to having a medication that masks all of my emotions, rendering me robotic.   I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number.  Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed.  Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.

Today, I forgot to take my pill.  I have an alarm set on my phone that goes off at 8:00am during the week and 9:00am on weekends to remind me to take my pill.  Every morning I try to remember to take the pill before my alarm goes off; it’s some kind of game I play against myself.  Last night I was up late and today I had to start working an event at noon, so instead of setting myself an extra alarm to wake me, I decided to just use the pill reminder alarm.  I forgot to take my pill and there was no second alarm to remind me.

Halfway through my event today I realized that I had forgotten to take my medication.  I was working so I knew I wouldn’t be able to take it until tonight.  I made a mental note in my head and reminded myself that these pills didn’t seem to be doing much so it likely didn’t matter that I’d forgotten today’s dosage.  My day went on and I took the pill when I got home.

On an unrelated note, I’ve spent the day stressing over a personal situation.  I like someone, I think they like me back, I don’t know how much…I’m pretty much a teenager.  I’ve gone full “girl crazy” as I obsess over it.

And then I feel stupid for overthinking the situation.  I always do this: I overanalyze everything.  I tell myself over and over again that I need to stop stressing myself out.  At the same time, however, I tell myself that I’m probably right: he probably doesn’t like me.

I think, you are so stupid.  Why do I keep doing this? Why do I let myself get hurt? Why do I overthink and overanalyze and why do I care? Why can’t I just shut off and let no one in? Why did I think it was okay to let someone in?

I should just kill myself.

That’s when I stopped.  I completely froze.  I was walking from my bedroom to the living room and I stopped dead in my tracks.  A whoosh of breath took the word “whoa” out of my lungs and into the silent room.

I started talking to my brain as if it were two separate people: an intimidated nerd against the unapologetic bully.  I couldn’t let this bully speak to me like that.  I gave myself a pep talk.  It’s not okay to say those things.  I need to have respect for myself.  I am worthy of respect.  Why on Earth was I saying these things?

Ah.  Right.  The medication.

The medication IS working.  See what happens when I don’t take the medication? I become even more self-deprecating; suicidal, even.  Although maybe with the medication I am still somewhat crazy as evidenced by the fact that there seem to be two people in my brain.  Three, really, if you take into account this third party referee.

But it is really nice to see that the medication is working.  It is not masking my symptoms by creating a new mask.  It is allowing me to feel…I have a new range of emotions.  Some of them suck, but they’re there.  The medication allows me those emotions, but keeps away the really dark thoughts and feelings.  It’s like a dreamcatcher: it catches the bad thoughts and washes them away with the light.

So, I’m going to take some deep breaths.  I’m going to try to not freak out.  I am worth it.  Maybe you see that I’m worth it.  I hope that you see, but maybe you don’t.  And that would hurt, because I do feel.  I am human.  But I will heal and I will be okay.  You can bend me and you can bruise me but you can’t break me.

I can’t tell you the future.  You can’t tell me.  But I have today.  I know how I felt with you.  And if by some chance you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay.  I’m okay…or at least, I will be.


I’m just too damn funny.

I got fired from therapy again today.

Let’s deconstruct that a little bit.  My therapist decided that we have reached our goals and that it’s time I take a break from therapy.  He created a discharge plan for me, which includes the following: I will know I need to seek help again when I sleep with more than two people in a week that I know I won’t see again.


Alright, I know I’ve been making some poor choices in life.  But did he really just put that on the plan? So what, two random hookups in a week is fine and dandy? But three? Whoaaaa…hold the phone.  That’s too much strange, missy.  Zip it up and back to therapy you go.

He wrote on my paper that he enjoyed working with me because I am able to find the joy in life and laugh at the little things.  Ummmm.  I’m no therapist, okay? I dropped out of university after I went broke and compensated with college.  As a result, I only took first year psych.  But even I know that my humour (while amazing) is a thinly veiled attempt at protection.

I suck at emotions.  They’re hard and they hurt, so I hide them and crack a joke instead.  Nothing like a little self-deprecating comedy to lighten the mood, right? If I’m on the spot maybe I’ll add a little “jig d’Ashlee Simpson” and make my exit stage right.  But I definitely wouldn’t say that means I’m fixed.

I was in therapy less than two months.  It takes me the better part of a year before I’m even comfortable using someone’s name in conversation.  For real.  If you know me, think about that.  How many times have I actually used your name in daily conversation? Probably not many.  How many times have you seen me cry? How many times have I shared something intensely personal with you? You could be one of my best friends and it’s entirely possible that you’ve only seen the funny Bri.  Definitely more than biweekly sessions over the span of two months.

Oh — and we were deconstructing, weren’t we? So I suppose we should get to the end of that thought.  I was fired from therapy…again.

That’s right, folks! This is not the first time that a therapist has broken up with me.  Again I sit in the chair and I tell my life story and I shove down all the unhappy and I smile big and I laugh loud.  And I get the same story of how well I’m coping with what life has thrown at me, and I get sent on my merry way.

Would you like to know how I reacted when my therapist broke up with me today? I laughed.  I got to my car and I cracked up.  All I could think of is what a great story this will make.  Yes, friend, I have tried therapy.  Multiple times.  It’s not my fault my therapists keep breaking up with me!

Ah, well.  At least it’s a good story.