12/02/2010

I don’t know why I ever let myself forget to take my meds…I can literally feel the difference in my body…& it gets to the point where I start to obsess about it, my thoughts continually trying to understand why I’m feeling…different; I don’t really think there’s an exact word to describe it, and it’s a strange weirdness, which is why it sometimes goes unnoticed for awhile, because it’s just, an unnamed feeling if you will…& I eventually just start freaking out over it, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me and how to stop it.
And then, I finally realize I haven’t taken anything in two weeks.

And getting back on them, there’s an almost instant difference.
In so many different ways. Some good, most bad (for me).
Which is why I like them.

I’m not telling the whole truth here & I don’t know why. I’ve never been ashamed of the things I do or feel before, I’ve always been able to admit to every detail of every terrible thing I’ve done or thought or felt or experienced. I’ve never purposefully left things out from shame, or fear, or whatever it is that’s keeping me from being completely honest.

I could tell you more about how I feel when I’m off the drugs. But I don’t want to talk about. And I could tell you more about why I like being on them. But I don’t want to admit to it.
It’s no worse than anything else I’ve ever written about. It’s really no different. Mostly more of the same. But for some reason I don’t want to admit to it this time. Not even here.

And that is so weird for me. There are few things (really only one main thing) that I cannot face. That I cannot even type out.
& sometimes I do type things out, just to backspace it all away.
So it’s a weird feeling, not to even be able to type them out, even knowing they’ll just be backspaced again.

Honestly the things I’ve left out are not that big of a deal…but something inside me wants to keep it hidden this time around. Does that make sense? Probably not. It doesn’t really even make sense to me…like, just, fucking type it out already.

…I guess writing about it makes me accountable. And I don’t want to be responsible for the things I’m doing. If I write about it, it becomes real and then I have to deal with it. If I don’t write about it, I can pretend it doesn’t exist. And no one ever knows any different.
Not that it even matters, I guess, except to me.