It’s no secret I am fighting really hard not to have to drug myself to get through life. I have the utmost respect for the people that know they need it and for whom it helps–my feelings are completely, 100% personal. And maybe I could stand to take a little advice from my shrink and “reframe” the way I think about them (she was trying to speak to me as an artist, it was really quite adorable and frankly a little genius). That said, I find pharmaceuticals to induce existentialism in myself. Namely, it feels that there isn’t a whole lot of point to life if I have to drug myself to get through it. I know it’s not the healthiest attitude, but it’s the one I currently have, and I’m just being honest about my feelings. Maybe one day I’ll try a different frame around it.
However, I do fully admit there are times when medications are needed. I take antibiotics (grudgingly, if I absolutely have to, and then I also take additional meds for the unintended consequences), I take pain killers and anti-inflammatories. But I’d also be pretty upset if I had to take them all the time. Like, really upset.
I’ve recently also started taking anti-anxiety meds. Benzos. Because I didn’t want to have to take something every day. At first I was pretty “meh” about them. Not really understanding if they helped at all. After I had a panic attack at work, I started taking one every day, as a preventative, but I’m really trying to get away from them. Again, I don’t want to have to take them every day. If I have to take them everyday, then that says something pathetic about my job. But even still, I wasn’t sure if they were working. Maybe I’m just starting to feel more confident because I’m getting more experienced? Who knows.
So I tried something I knew would absolutely tell me, without a doubt, they were working.
I took one, and promptly made my way to the Mall of America to go for a stroll. First floor, easy peasy (always is). Second floor, smooth sailing (usually is, unless I go close to a rail). Third floor, hey, are we still on the second floor? (Usually at this point I have to start walking faster to get back to the second floor as soon as possible). Fourth floor… I know I should be nervous, but there are literally no physical reactions. None.
A little history… I could probably count the number of times I’ve been on the fourth floor, and each of those times my heart practically beat out of my chest, and I had to fight the urge to crawl flat on the floor.
But not today. Today the fourth floor was my bitch. Take that, fourth floor!
Next stop? Ropes course! Who’s with me?