This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
I’ve been on psychiatric medications since I was 16 years old.
I’ve been on them for my entire adult life.
I know I will be on them until I die.
Most of the time, I’m the first person to tell others “take your meds, they work, even when they don’t work perfectly, they are there for a reason, keep working with the doctors until you find the right ones.” I always refill my meds on time, always refill my pill sorter, I rarely miss a dose, take them every morning and every night.
I don’t want to.
So many medications, and the pill sorter is empty and I just don’t want to fill it up again.
Especially when life seems so dim and dull and pointless anyway.
I just want to stop.
Take a break.
Put them away for awhile.
But I know.
That isn’t pretty.
I might be okay for a little while, maybe a few weeks, maybe even a few months.
But I have stability right now, even if it isn’t perfect. I don’t want to risk it. I don’t want to put myself through that, my family through that, My Love through that.
I’ve been there before.
It isn’t pretty.
So I pull out the bag with the bottles of pills.
I sort them one at a time.
And I take my fucking meds.