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. Read more…

Writing is hard. Don’t ever let anyone tell you any different.

Writing is especially hard when your mind is going so many different directions you’re having a hard time figuring out which way is up.

I have obligations that I let fall by the wayside because of M’s surgery, and all the things that came along with that wild ride. I want to catch up. I need to catch up. But I seem to have lost my give a damn. Read more…