I think it's time for meds...

It's time, but I don't want it to be. However, I've fought the good fight. I've done everything my body and brain will allow me to do and I am exhausted.

There is no light.

It's so strange the way the human brain works. I can give great advice. I can be there for my friends. I can tell them that they are worth it and they matter, but it feels like lies from the pit of Hell when I'm speaking to myself.

Depression and anxiety have been my struggle for years now. At least 2 decades. It wasn't until the pandemic that I learned it's not just depression and anxiety. It's actually Autism, ADHD, and OCD. You know, on top of the depression and anxiety. What a fun little combination of disorders!

It's weird to learn the reason you've been suffering in one way or another for your entire life. It's even weirder when you think about how no one in your life seemed to notice. Or care, for that matter. Throughout childhood, I just thought I was weird. Socially awkward and inept. I didn't fit in. I was the teacher's pet and hopeless daydreamer. While the other kids were playing together, I spun in the wind, sucked the nectar out of Honeysuckles, contemplated my existence, and worried about always being perceived as good.

Anxiety may very well have been my first friend.

I'm not sure who to attribute this quote to, but it's okay not to be okay. It's okay to ask for help.

After starting college and being diagnosed with Crohn's the depression cloud grew steadily. It was large and intimidating. It followed me. Still does...

Nothing was ever the same after that.

I've never wanted to die, but living had become such a chore. Life had become pain. Sometimes, I don't know what's worse; the apathy about whether you'll live or die or the intrusive thoughts trying to get you to believe death is easier when all you want to do is live and live well.

I've been masking my entire life. I grew up an undiagnosed Autistic black girl who was yelled at and bullied to behave normally. Masking my depression and anxiety was no different.

I learned to smile when I wanted to cry. I learned how to maintain eye contact and change the inflections in my voice to sound engaging. I studied facial expressions and practiced smiling with my teeth in the mirror. I learned how to laugh when I didn't mean it. I learned how to stuff it down, bottle it up, hide... All to survive. That way, I was safe.

But, I can't hide anymore. Do you know what masking does to an Autistic person? What it's like to use every available modicum of energy to do basic tasks, to have a conversation, to live in a world that's too much or not enough all at the same time?

I want to be free to be myself and I don't even know who she is. I'm like this amalgamation of people I've met throughout my life wrapped up in a ball of autism mixed with anxiety, depression, and a lack of executive functioning skills.

I'm terrified of medication because Oxnard (the name I gave my OCD to separate him from me) tells me that it's dangerous. It screams at me that this medicine will kill me if I take it. But, OCD doesn't make any sense. It's irrational and paradoxical because if the meds don't kill me, this OCD and depression will. And with them controlling my body, the chances of that are much higher than good ol' Zoloft ending me.

I have pretended that I'm okay for long enough. I'm tired. I'm worn out. All of my resources are depleted. My faith is in the toilet. Oxnard has taken my ability to eat, sleep, shower, clean, take medicine, exercise, go outside, drive a car, and even look at a stranger without wanting to crawl in a hole. It's time. I can't do this on my own. Even with the support of friends, family, a therapist, and a weekly group therapy session, I can't do this.

I'm losing this fight.

And saying I need help isn't weakness. Needing medication isn't a weakness. That's what I would tell anyone who came to me and told me they were struggling the way I am. Why is it that even writing this about myself feels like a lie? It feels like defeat.

Slowly, I'm learning that just because we feel things, doesn't make them true.

It's time for medication. I don't think it is, I know it is. Am I afraid of side effects, mild & severe? Yes. The last time I was on an SSRI I randomly stopped (don't recommend) and then started again months later at the same high dose I was on before (also don't recommend). I'm 95% sure I gave myself a mild case of Serotonin Syndrome and that's very dangerous.

More than anything, I'm afraid I'm not responsible enough for the responsibility of medications like these. With Remicade, a woman comes to my house and shoots it into my veins. I can't mess that up.

But this? This is a whole level of responsibility my sweet little neurodivergent brain has no idea how to maintain. If I take these meds, I can't just stop. There's no going back. (Unless I'm doing it the responsible way with the approval of a doctor).

Considering the alternative, there's not really a contest though, is there? There is absolutely no way I can keep going like this. That proverbial shoe I'm always on the lookout for will drop and the proverbial s**t will hit the fan. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point. My brain is going to destroy me if I let it.

So... it's time for medication again.

And that's okay.