When the merry-go-round stops

Can we talk about drugs for a second? I'm not talking about the ones on the ballot or sold under shoes tied and hung from power lines. I am talking about the ones waiting for you behind the sterile counter given to you by a friendly face in a white jacket. The paper says the doctor thinks I need this. And the bags are piling up waiting to be delivered.

No one questions getting a flu shot, cold medicine, or something for strep throat. Blood pressure medicine, insulin, and other cures for common ailments are discussed freely. But my medicine, the stuff to keep me alive, keep my brain from hitting the self destruct button, is somehow perceived as shameful still.

But I am not ashamed. Instead, I am thankful that in another month, I may be able to get out of bed without making myself. I am thankful that I may be able to not want to die all of the time. I am thankful that I can write my memories down without freezing up, and that maybe more than the kitchen will keep my heart pumping daily.

I intend to win my battle with depression and learn to have a good life despite PTSD. They can't cure trauma yet. You know that? All they can do is teach you how to better cope with it so it no longer controls you. I don't want to be owned by my past.

So I may be rude. I may cut you off and tell you it's not your business. I may be vague. And, maybe one day, if you don't get the hint, I may walk out of the conversation. I am learning that protecting myself is ok, and I need more protecting than most. This still bothers me because I hate being perceived as weak. But it's not weakness, just an acknowledgement of where my heart was torn and that I will never be the same.

I write about this experience because I am not alone. Others go through this too. Writing reminds me that I still have my voice. No one can take it away from me.

These pills that are supposed to ease my mind give me vivid dreams, keep me awake, make me dizzy, and make me want to sleep for days. Then I adjust, attack food like it's an invading army, and wake before my alarm. I am not on a high enough dose yet to have the benefits. But I notice them. I can write now without shutting the journal at the thought of sharing my darkness with the page. And I need this processing if I am ever to be free of these dysfunctions. So I press on.

Jesus holds me at night. He walks me to work in the morning. He is here with me in my darkness. We're fine, thanks for asking. I would have died by my own hands a long time ago, but he keeps my life. If he doesn't heal me, he is still beside me. I trust him. He will lead me home.