We sat around the patio table and I felt alone. Usually, I’m up for girl gab and friendship but all I wanted to do was close up shop and huddle in bed with a TV, a book, or complete silence. For the past few months, I’d run that way. Not wanting to talk, not wanting to do, not wanting to show myself, my face, my heart. That feeling? When everyone around you seems normal and able to enjoy life and all you can do is scratch the window and curse the glass? It’s almost like being buried alive. Do you know those people who carry sadness with them? How they try to smile but you can sense something deeper, more raw below the surface, and it might scare you a little? So much so that you want to leave them and put the sun on your face to burn off the heavy?
I think that’s me. The sad one.
I asked, I did.
“Have I been different the last few months?”
One by one, my friends nodded and reluctantly told me I had seemed “down.” It’s true, I’d been on the edge of tears daily, felt close to raw and unable to climb out of where the sun didn’t shine. Of course, sometime in February, I’d stopped taking my medication. I reveled in it at first. I could feel stuff! Like feelings! I even liked that I could cry once more, a skill lost to medicated apathy. Off Celexa, I was me again in all my wet emotion and realness. But then, it was me again in all my wet emotion and realness. I still want to have all that in my soul. It’s just that I can’t assimilate it all without feeling…broken. I hate that fact. That I need medication.
I tried other ways. I took natural supplements, cleaned up my diet, moved my body more. Yet always the sadness. So much more intense during certain points in a month, so much so that I couldn’t think straight. Rather, I was crooked. All my thoughts leading to horrible conclusions, like I’ll never get my personality back, my sense of humor is gone forever, no one likes me, I’m Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted.
I still blame the hormones. I sense the wave of body chemistry kicking up its heels and unfurling in imbalance right before my period, but it gets me in the gut every time, those heels.
I want the power back. I want to be the one wearing the stilettos. I want to kick that imbalance right out of my bloodstream and into the street and into the dirt and out of the world.
I just have to admit that for now, I need a co-kicker. So it is, and so it is.
I need to be me again.
I ran upstairs as my friends sipped wine and watched the kids swim. I called my doctor, ordered a prescription, and surrendered. Next time I’m with my friends and the people who love me, I hope to be there all the way, out of the hole, in front of the glass.
This is my PROMPTuesday submission.