They say that happiness is a choice.
Well, my brain is having a hard time choosing it.
I roll this little tiny pill in my hand – this magical little pill that’s supposed to change the chemicals in my brain. It’s supposed to make me feel happier. That’s what the doctor said. The first week, I was left tossing and turning in bed. I’m already restless by nature, but the pills amplified my senses two-fold. Tired, but unable to fall asleep. My stomach rumbled. Despite the lack of sleep, I felt strangely awake throughout the first few days.
As the week went on, I noticed that I was no longer in a deep depression. If anything, I felt… emotionless. Neither happy nor sad. I was numb. I had no desire to do anything anymore. No motivation. No inspiration. Everything felt purposeless and I was okay with it. But as the week ended and a new one cropped up, a tingling sensation nestled itself deep in my chest. Anxiety.
It’s been almost two months now since I’ve started taking anti-depressants. It’s been almost two months since hoping that the answer to all my problems were contained in these little pink pills. Like some sort of magic trick that science could fix. This is more than just a chemical imbalance. It’s my soul. My soul is sick.
My mind is so convoluted with melancholic gloop. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like I’ve lost myself. I no longer have the desire to create anything. Even writing this post is painful. My creativity is stunted. My words are a mess. I want to quit everything. Delete everything. My videos. My blog. My social media. I want to be forgotten because I feel forgotten. I want to cease to exist. I don’t feel good enough. My psychologist – she says that I say that a lot. That I’m not good enough. I can’t help it.
I feel like I’m living life on a constant ranking system where I fall below average. Not smart enough. Not talented enough. Not motivated enough. Not pretty enough. Not funny enough. Not creative enough. Not social enough. Not good enough. I say it so often that I start to believe it, living in constant paranoia. I know I’ve dug myself into a false sense of reality and I hate myself for it.
They say that a possible side effect of anti-depressants is suicide. Ironic, isn’t it? I didn’t think much of it at first. But then the thoughts came. Strong. Steady.
Getting hit by a train.
Crashing my car into a tree.
I felt my left arm tingle, like there were bugs crawling underneath the skin where I used to cut myself. Force of habit. I claw at it with my fingernails looking for some sort of relief. I don’t know why it does that. Why do I want to hurt myself? I’m so ashamed of the thoughts.
It freaking sucks.
I hate myself.
I hate my brain.
I hate that this is who I’ve become.
I know we all have a choice to pave our own path in life.
But sometimes it’s hard, you know?
It’s like some sort of sick habit that’s plagued every fibre of my being.
My eyes water.
My nose stings.
Leg shaking nervously.
Fingers tremble typing.
Heart beating rapid.
Happiness is a choice.
So why is it so damn hard for me to make it.