I have a habit of writing when I’m happy, which no doubt influences how people perceive me. The truth is, I fucked up.
Whether or not you’ve been following my blog and I, I’ll give you a quick catch-up; depressed and anxious teen on medication to make life bearable. Turns out, I’ve accidentally been taking double my prescribed dose, fortunately still within a safe amount but not great news nonetheless. You see, I started on 10mg of Citalopram, went up to 20mg for my exams as I struggled to function still with exam anxiety – when I tried to cut back down to 10mg, I couldn’t do it. Everything was apocalyptic. So I stayed on 20mg, taking two 10mg tablets a day, until I realised midway through a new prescribed packet, that the individual tablets were actually 20mg each.
I’m not 100% sure when this switch happened, however, as with most antidepressants, it often gets worse before it gets better, and I have a distinctive memory of feeling really shit in early December. I found out that I’d been taking the wrong dose just before another trip to Lincoln,
and I was faced with the dilemma of continuing to take double the dose and face the consequences once I’m home, or cut down straight away.
Not necessarily taking a route I’d recommend, I cut down immediately. Though Lincoln was still a brilliant week away, I cried for the first time this year, and more than I had in a long time. When I came home, the tears continued, flowing more easily than they had since I started on Citalopram. It doesn’t make me unfeeling, but I usually find it hard to cry nowadays, whereas pre-meds, a misplaced Oyster card or spilled toothpaste could make me sob. The following month or so, which I believe I’m still writing this in, has been hard – lazy, but hard. It’s almost like a flashback to my old self, though not as extreme, just bedbound and tired and indecisive at the simplest of things. Deciding what to eat is hard, finding the energy to shower is hard, seeing any purpose to leave my bed is hard. As rose coloured as my last post was, I tripped on how disabling mental illness can be.
However, I told you at the beginning that I have a habit of writing when I’m happy. I’m okay, and although things aren’t quite peachy and kaleidoscopic, my biggest issue is with boys. I started applying for jobs, started revising for my resits in the summer, and started on my Paris blog and blog, which you'll soon see. I’m a nineteen-year-old girl with a place a university in the Autumn and the little hiccups that swarm my mind at the moment, will pass me by in time to come. To my younger self, who had far mountainous problems to face than I have now – never fear. You make it, as do those you love.
Dream on.
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