The Bloody Doors Off

I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head
You’re tryin’ to save me, stop holdin’ your breath
And you think I’m crazy, yeah, you think I’m crazy

Monster, Eminem

I’m definitely not friends with Harold.

We’re far from frenemies.

Adversaries at best.

He’s Khan to my Kirk.

(Nerd alert.)

There’ve been some very long nights.

Questions at 4am that I had no answers for.

Which I realize.

I still don’t.

But they seem less severe.

Maybe it’s maturity.

Maybe it’s Wellbutrin.

Gods knows, I wasn’t diagnosed back then.

I should’ve been.

I should’ve been diagnosed in high school.

You know.

When I refused to get out of bed in the morning.

Instead I saw a psychologist who specialized in relationships.

How the fuck was that supposed to help me?

I was in an obsidian place in high school.

Which carried through to my 30s.

I bring this up.

Because.

Things are getting better.

It’s less stigmatized.

And yet.

That’s what I’m doing.

With the lithium.

I’m worried it’ll work too well.

That maybe I am a little crazy.

This isn’t making much sense.

Time to hit pause.

I got the pills today.

That’s why I’m freaking out.

One step closer.

(Guess I’m not hitting pause.)

They’re covered by Trillium and come August, my deductible resets and I’d have to pay out-of-pocket. This way, I’ve got it for at least a month.

This whole debate.

It was abstract.

Now it’s concrete.

It’s feels like there’s no turning back.

I just don’t want to lose myself.