I’m diagnosed with Clinical Depression (among other things).

I stopped taking medication because to get to a point where I stopped having suicidal ideations, stopped feeling worthless, stopped feeling empty, I had to also stop feeling anything, stop having sex, stop being able to focus, continue to not be motivated to live. I was, in essence, a zombie. I wasn’t alive, but my body hadn’t had the curtesy to just stop living.

What’s the point of taking pills that are supposed to make you feel better if they really only make you a zombie?

I’m told mental health meds (and particularly those meant for depression and anxiety) have come a long way, and are less likely to affect a body that way, but I have a few friends who are currently running the gamut of antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications and having the same results I did.

I remember that hell. I remember having my meds switched every few months, and then the dosage upped until it couldn’t be upped anymore, and then having to switch again because if there were results at all, it was only because the drug had rendered me incapable of feeling anything. And I remember feeling like there was something very serious wrong with me since even antidepressants couldn’t fix me. Which made dying a beautiful prize I strove for every day. I’m not interested in going through that again.

Master was there for some of it, and he’s not interested in me going through that again.

So I learned coping mechanisms, and meditation techniques, and began sticking to a general schedule, and trying to eat healthy.

For a really, really long time, it was fine. I was fine. Not “fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional” (though I will probably always be those things, medicated or not), but really and truly fine. I was happy. I could function. I was able to recognize my illness for what it was, and when I began having a problem, I could pull myself out of it like nobody’s business. Nobody told me to just pull myself together because I was a fully functioning human being who had occasional freak outs. EVERYONE has occasional freak outs.

Lately, I can’t pull myself together. Even doing things I love has become a laborious task filled with insecurity and anxiety, and inevitably, that leads to me questioning whether I ever really liked those things or I just think I do because people have told me I do, or I’m supposed to, or whatever.

The long and short of it is I have stagnated. I’m stuck in “everyone hates me, and everything sucks, and I suck, and what am I even doing with my life?” mode.

M’s noticed. And because he’s an alpha male, and alpha males are notorious for needing to fix things, he’s decided to fix it the best way he knows how. So to do lists have become a thing again, and he’s added things like masturbation and writing.

I thrive in a setting where I have assigned tasks given to me by an outside source, and until this week, I had none of that. I mean, there were things I had to do in the way that there are things that every human has to do, and it was generally understood that I was supposed to do them. But I haven’t been held accountable for not doing the things that were my ‘every human tasks’ in a very long time. So when depression overwhelmed me, I just stopped doing them unless I had to.

How very adult of me. I’m so growed up I make Hugh Hefner look like an infant.

Once upon a time, someone told me they loved how very self aware I am, and sometimes I think that’s half my problem. I’m an asshole, and I know I’m an asshole, and I’m so affected by that knowledge that I can’t even begin to think about how to stop being an asshole. That’s basically the gist of what one of my therapists said, anyway. Maybe they’re right.

In any case, I’m trying to feel less hopeless and helpless and power through. I’m trying to do better. To be better. I’m hoping Master’s method is the thing I needed to pull out of this tailspin.

We’ll see, I guess.

💜

P.S. No suicidal ideations, in case anyone was wondering. Just so we’re clear.