Zoloft Chronicles

They say on every prescription of anti-depressants that one may not feel the full effects of the drug for up to one month, but some may notice as soon as one week. I keep this in my head as I try to be patient. It hasn't been a week yet, but I am beginning to notice little things. Like the first little bubbles in a pot set to boil, I am noticing the annoying little things I have a compulsion to do. I ask myself when it first started, and the proverbial can of worms opens...slimy little creatures trying to climb out to avoid being skewered on a hook, and possibly pumped full of air. The doctor asked me if I counted...and I couldn't think whether I did, because many of these acts have been second nature. Then, in a store, I notice that one of the little voices in my head is counting my steps to avoid stepping on a crack in the floor slabs. In my adult mind, I know that not everyone does this...and I also know that it is something I have kept under wraps at all costs to avoid the wide-eyed looks from my peers that say in no uncertain terms that I am crazy.
The first time I read Girl...Interrupted, long before the movie, mind you...the protagonist's journey felt a little too familiar to me. I felt that I might feel at home in an institution...being a guerilla anthropologist in denial of my own questionable sanity. I know what it feels like to be disconnected from one's body. I know the numbness of wondering whether you are real or perceived. I know the sinewy depths of self inflicted pain and torment, and how that can give someone an indescribable release. Sometimes I think it was worse as a child, and then I advise myself that I have had several years to deal with and hide the symptoms from prying eyes. I know how to function as an adult...although I may not be the best at it. I still take thrice as long to finish things...some things never get touched for fear of the way my hands feel despite subsequent washings. I take deep breaths as I wash dishes bare handed to calm my pounding heart. I tell the voice that says it's not good enough yet that it's fine...it's fine...it's fine. I feel guilty that my Fruit is with a sick woman. I get paranoid that the things I do will never be enough. The voice repeats...do it again, it's not good enough...over and over until I must rub my temples and shake it off. Doesn't everyone do this? Everyone must do this...I can't be crazy...I can't be crazy. The anxiety I feel should have gone away with childhood...the rationalizations I make to myself have gotten me very far in my short years as an adult...and then I notice that there is a problem. My Fruit tells me that there is a problem...and she must tell me over and over again before I admit that there is something wrong to myself. I don't know why I am so afraid. I don't know why I have a set of laws that apply only to myself and never to anyone else...why I can accept things in other people and not in myself...why I can justify and comfort others in their actions and harshly chastize myself as if I am less of a person. My therapists in the past said it was because of the way I was raised. They say it was my fear of my mother and that the voices were my mind's way of creating a substitute parent to tell me what is right and wrong. I don't know how true that is...or what it could possibly solve when a little girl has a voice in her head, steeped in false wisdom of how things should be done, telling her what to do. As a child, I thought it was my guardian angel. As an adult, I thought it was my conscience. Now I wonder again where it will go if and when the pills do their job. Will it change me? Will I be a better person. Will she still love me? The voices spar debate-style...weighing the pros and cons as I desperately try to keep up with all of the routine of daily life. The lawn needs to be mowed...the garage needs to be cleaned...the dishes washed and the dog and cats fed and watered. A shower needs to be taken...work needs to be done. All I want is to stay home and take care of the burning necessities as I go off to yet another job that leads me home to consume beer and vegetate on the couch for a few hours before bed.
My Fruit, I love you dearly...this weekend has been fabulous and I am deeply saddened to see it end. I hope that I can be a better person...that I can share with you the methods to my madness...and overcome them to be an efficient and fully functioning member of our beautiful little household. You inspire me to be a better woman, and there are no words in our language to express how much that means to me. You have shown me the depths of unconditional love, and I will spend the rest of my life showing you my love, gratitude and deep respect for all that you are.