January 26, 2017 § Leave a comment
I hate myself, in part, for writing this today. I haven’t written for quite some time and to return today, seems wrong for myself. Although not posting today if I wanted to is just as wrong as posting today when I didn’t want to, just because it’s “Bell, Let’s Talk” day.
I haven’t been on here much, partly, because I chose to go off of my medication cold turkey end of August last year. Not that I was healthy in any way, shape or form before that when I was on said meds, but after about three ish months, I did change. There was a come down. It was noticed moreso by others than myself. And only when I began to question the changes in myself did anyone tell me they’d noticed differences. I was sick on and off, tired and barely able to do anything besides go to work which I forced myself to do, even then, not always being able to stay. I stopped my medication, in part, because of side effects, but a lot of it had to do with curiosity. Who would I be now?
The brain is such a strange place. Lately I’ve had dreams, or I’ve woken up with fear that I’m dying. I’ve had certain related fears before, but now I care. I used to imagine my death, I used to live for myself where I honestly didn’t care if I died, sometimes I’d envision it, write out plans, enact some of them out. I’d make mistakes, take pills or drink myself to what should have been my end, gotten into cars with strangers, and I was satisfied with whatever might happen to me.
I had a story I wrote, thought of, many variations, how I’d wanted to die. Now I don’t want to. I remember in the past thinking about this, how I’d end up in the future, wanting to live long and healthily and have a home and a family but I’d only realize this shortly before discovering I had some disease and was dying. Where I would hate my past self so terribly, what was I doing, how stupid and naive I was. There was a separation for me, I think there still is, of a me “then”, “now”, and perhaps a future Maghan. I’ve always written myself like a character throughout my life, a fiction.
But it was always me. I run away from my problems, try to erase them, but they are always there. I still refuse to be certain things and I am not sure whether these traits and choices of mine are strengths or weaknesses. They’re both really. The labels don’t matter. It all exists. All of me exists. The way I was, the way I am. My brain then to now, my actions, my choices. It’s all me. I am all of it. And I can’t get away.