It's been six months since I started medication.
In those first few weeks I googled everything I could find, trying to figure what side effects to expect, and a timeline of when I would feel relief. After a while I became discouraged, and instead began to track my progress in a journal. After a few weeks of that, I gave up because going back and reading the entries made me want to stop taking medication altogether. People were being so nice and so supportive. I didn't want to let anyone down by saying I was still barely hanging on.
But then I started to notice little things. The screaming would leave for a day or two. I wouldn't panic as much about things. There were hours without thinking about dying. I was finding it easier to get out of bed. They were all tiny, but they were steps. And with each step I felt a little bit more hope that maybe help was not far off.
There began to be okay days. Days where things weren't quite so dark, and I wouldn't cry quite so much. Still, there was no moment where I thought: "I'm okay now!" I suppose it's silly, because they say this is something that will follow me around for the rest of my life, but I cling to the hope of feeling stable. Of people thinking I'm stable.
Then there were seven amazing days. And by amazing, I mean normal. I was turning right on Water Street when I realized it. The exact moment it sunk in was just before the Orange Gas Station as Ed Sheeran played on radio. I was so excited I wanted to shout.
And really? It was just a normal thought that made me so happy. I had caught myself asking if I wanted to die, but then immediately my brain had replied: "Why in the world would I want to die? I want to live."
I wanted to LIVE! I couldn't remember the last time I'd thought those words. I couldn't remember when my brain had felt so much hope that life was the best and most exciting option. I was grinning from ear to ear, and I tried to call home and tell someone. I WANTED TO LIVE!
I took this about 10 minutes after realizing I didn't want to die.
For seven days I felt that way. Not the overflow of excitement-- but the luxury of normal. I was a normal amount of tired in the morning. I was reacting normally to bad events. I was normally talking. People hate to be called normal. It's all I want to be.
"You will know." The doctor has told me. "You will know when you're feeling yourself." I wasn't feeling myself. But I did know one thing, it was the closest I've ever been to normal.
But then it came back. It was very slight at first. I recognized the first signs. I wanted to ignore them so much, but it wasn't going away. I walked around that week trying to brush it aside. I felt like something was chasing me. I was trying to run but couldn't, and the darkness was taking it's time. Lurking.
And on Saturday night, it hit me.
I huddled up in a fetal position sideways on my bed. I was staring blankly ahead. The thought drifted across my mind that I should ask for help, but I'd told people I was improving, and my paranoid mind doubted they would believe or want to hear about the nightmare I was engulfed in.
Have you ever been in a very small space where you can feel the weight of the walls and there is little room to move? It was like that. Knowing that I could move, but panicking because it was so confined. I could have sworn something was holding me down. The screams were going off in my head, echoing from the sides of my brain, even though I knew they weren’t real.
I don’t know how long I laid there. I think it may have been hours. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get up in the morning. After a while I fell asleep, dreading the next day.
Around 6:15 AM I woke up yet again. I could see the moon outside the window, but the sky was just starting to brighten. I slipped out from under the covers and went over to the window seat. The horizon was a faded pink and I knew it would be a brilliant sunrise.
One of the many sunrises I enjoyed earlier this year.
Sunrises are my favourite. The beginning of the year was spent watching many of them because I found renewed hope as I watch the sun greet a new day. But lately, I wasn’t watching them. I knew that morning was an opportunity to see hope once again. I stood there for a few seconds, wondering if I had the strength to stay and watch the sun peak up from behind the horizon. I didn’t. I turned around and buried myself under the covers as my kitty nudged my head-- hoping I was up for the day.
Two hours later I woke up to a brilliant sunny day. The water was my favourite colour blue, and so calm. It reminded me of the lake where I spent my childhood summers. I pushed away that thought, because now that place is filled with painful memories. In my head, I knew the day was beautiful. I knew it was sunny, but I felt like I was looking at it through darkness. Like a dream where you see everything, but you can’t touch any of it. I went out on the deck, hoping it would help. It didn’t. Feeling defeated I turned around, went back inside, and sat on the stairs.
I stared out the window, wishing I could see what I knew was there. It was then the idea came to me. I pulled out my phone and took a picture. I knew the lens would see it. I could look at it later. The screams followed me all morning, and I cursed my brain, all the while trying to remind myself that I would have break from the darkness if recent history stayed on my side.
I got through the day, I even went out on the trail that led to the treehouse and helped move branches that had fallen in the windstorm. I enjoyed a delicious supper with the best neighbours on the planet. My soul felt increasingly less dark. I was thankful for the warm and wonderful people of Shore Lane.
That evening I walked home wondering what the next day would bring. It’s been a game since those seven days of what felt normal. At least, what I think is normal. Some days are like Saturday. Then there are days when I’m in complete denial and want to stop medication as soon as possible.
On Monday I woke up to snow on the ground, grey skies, and deep fog. But yet, my brain was clearer. I got through the day. The weight was there, but it was getting better and I was grateful for it.
It was then I remembered. The picture. I hauled out my phone and scrolled through trying to find it. It was still there, and I could finally see it. Sunday morning had been gorgeous.
The day might have been miserable for me, and I wished the weather was like the day before, but I clung to the hope that next time I would be able to really see it.
In fact, I more than hoped. I knew I would.
Good days will come back. Half good days are in and out. If I'm lucky, good weeks and months will be a part of my life.
In those mornings where I stare at the purple container that holds the pills I hate so much, I remind myself of good days. It used to be that I wondered what those were. And now I know.
I think it's important to be honest about how brutal side effects can be and how long it can take for medication to kick in. I wouldn't wish those first few months on anyone I know. I still deal with them, but it's not as bad now. I will probably have to take more, and I still dread it just as much.
I don't think it's the only answer and I understand why people resist. I know why it's so scary. But I also have come to accept that as much as I hate medication, it's helping me.
And for that I am thankful.