My anxiety has been making an unwelcome reappearance, together with my depressive symptoms. I didn’t have much of an appetite, I was sleeping too much, and I was crying everywhere (seriously, everywhere: in my shower, in the bathroom at work, in the Grab car on my way home).
So I made an appointment with my psychiatrist a few weeks ago. After his assessment, he put me back on meds: divalproex sodium, sertraline, and clonazepam.
Honestly, I felt so conflicted about that.
On one hand, the meds might help with my constant palpitations and suicidal ideation. On the other hand, it’s an additional expense I really didn’t want to have to shell out for.
I’ve been a relatively good girl when it comes to taking care of myself.
I signed up for a gym to get those endorphins pumping. I write to express my emotions. I avoid self-harming. I handed my meds over to Mama to avoid the temptation of overdosing, and I take them consistently.
Despite all that, I haven’t exactly been feeling happier or more alive. On the contrary: I feel empty.
I can’t muster up a lot of excitement or joy. I feel like I’ve been numbed.
My heart doesn’t feel heavy anymore; instead, I don’t think it feels a lot these days. I can’t even cry anymore. Maybe this is how neurotypicals usually feel, as my boyfriend says.
I can’t remember if these meds made me feel the same way when I used to take them before. My next appointment with my psychiatrist is in January, and in a few days, I’ll be seeing my psychologist, too. I’ll need to talk to them about all this, because honestly, I don’t know why I’m still hanging on.