Introspection

 He was born in the summer of his 27th year...  

It's a classic lyric, but it really isn't so far from my truth.  I was in my late twenties when finally prescribed fluoxetine.  

Oh, there were times as a child that I acted out.  What I learned from that was: I was unimportant, if not an outright burden. Everything was my fault.  I started writing stories as a coping method, even if I may not have realized it at the time.  And I always loved to learn.  Used to sit in the front hall reading encyclopedias.  

As an adult, I did explore specific issues, if they were pointed out in a kindly manner and if my inner seas were relatively calm. I took a few little vacations in the psych ward.  I even asked about medication because I saw how well the others in my group therapy did with it, but my request was dismissed.  I did not ask again.

As I said, I was past the quarter-century mark when yet another episode occurred.  This time the doctor suggested medication.  Prozac was fairly new at the time, and controversial, but it was a godsend for me. I tell people it saved my life.

Pop Culture has gotten better with its presentation of the mentally ill - we're no longer just comic relief or bad guys - but they still seem to get wrong the struggle.  Commercials for antidepressants make it look like you pop a pill and instantly everything is fixed.  A show's very special episode handles the situation in an hour or less.  That ain't how it works. 

Even if a pill could instantly repair chemical imbalances and emotional damage, there's the outer world to consider.  To make another reference, there's an exchange in one of the Harry Potter books that makes my point:  "You were the one who told me to stand up to people!"  "Yes, but not to us."  

Finally, I could consistently apply the coping methods I'd picked up over the years and learn more.  But the patterns remained.  My family still spoke to me as they always had.  I went to college for an associate's degree, but my previous work history was, shall we say, spotty.  The longest I had kept a job was a couple years and I'd been fired often.  So I was still washing dishes and ringing up groceries. 

But I was growing out of my despair.  I learned to separate what I felt from what I knew.  I went low (or no) contact with those who refused to respect my journey and the woman I was becoming.  I embraced myself.  

Now I'm on Disability, but I'm still writing and you can even buy two of my books on Amazon.  Nine out of ten of my personalities manage to keep that tenth one caged.  (Yes, I know that's inaccurate and maybe insensitive to people with actual multiples.  But I find humor opens communication.)  

But I wake up dreading the day ahead.  Once I get up and moving, that passes, but it's a rough way to start every day.   I have bad dreams. My feelings are easily hurt.  I'm not cured.  The commercials are fibbing.  The very special episodes are oversimplifying.  

Now that I'm gotten all this off my chest, maybe I can sleep.  It's almost dawn.  Thanks for reading.