what i am with medication

by Quin Willets

it feels like i’m hiding; like i’m wearing a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer.

it’s like i’m wearing a football helmet with the hard part on the inside and the soft on the outside, protecting the world from who i am.

no,

     more like protecting my family from what i am. it feels like i'm the unbroken toy from a vending machine; spend 50 cents and weak glue is the only thing holding me together (at least there’s glue there now).

but i can see the anger, both red and blue in form. and i can identify triggers (everything and anything). i can tell myself not to fall into a white hot rage. it’s healthy of course, 

     but is this who i really am?

is the angry, sad, disappointed me the real one?

i feel like a phony, but i’m scared (terrified, horrified) of the real (real?) me. the one that lets bad things happen to other people, the one that wants those bad things to happen to themself.

thank you.

i don’t know if i, the me now, has changed or the other me, the ignorant scary (terrifying, horrifying) person is still there waiting. i feel the anger, the nervousness, the anxiety, and everything else–just less. i have a moment to think before i act and say. in that moment i can banish the evil (the real me?) away.

the stress and anxiety i used to tolerate (because I didn’t know any different) kills my body. it takes a toll on me. i mean, it always did, but i’d deal with it. now i can’t take the same exhaustion i used to eat before. that draining energy (trigger) was just something i had to push through. the medicine dulls this, thank god.

     but I’m afraid to let go of all the anger (clinical depression), i squish it down and push it back (i hide it); 

i question this. i don’t know if it’s enough (or right). it’s my first time with control, how can i know what’s normal? (excuses much?)

what if I need it? it’s been a part of me for so long, i’ve used it for just about everything. i mean—I used to even grind my teeth because of a lunch i'd order. what if I need that anger (sadness, depression)? i breathe in—and—i breathe out trying to push it away, but i stuff it back where i left it. i’m afraid to lose it.

     but i’m also afraid (terrified, horrified) of it.

the fight isn’t over. i need my morning routine: medication, meditation, a few push-ups, and breakfast (sometimes a black coffee too). but, what if it’s not there? what if my usual (medicated) day isn’t happening?

i know the answer…it sneaks back in.

i’m afraid to take off this blanket; this comfy warm blanket (or let it cool). my inside-out helmet helps me. it makes it so I can be better. it makes it so i can be a real person…an inhabitant of my home. 

the medicine does that. a real Wonder drug.

     but there’s doubt, (my doubt as in it’s coming from me). my emotions feel so dull. yeah, i’m happier more often. there’s no extreme. no overwhelming joy.

do i miss it? No. this new me is welcome here. i’m happy.

but, what am i truly? i can never know again. there’s danger in a version of me that’s filled with thoughts of rage toward myself and others. but

dang it (not Damn It or Fuck It), who am i? I need (want) to know…

but,

     i do know because i just said it, 

        didn’t i?

(Yes).