Medicated Mess
I’ve been called a “medicated mess.”
I’ve been told I need medication. I’ve been told I’m on too much medication. I’ve been told I should be off medication. Apparently, somewhere along the way, people who were in relationships with me also acquired honorary medical degrees.
The medication was prescribed for a diagnosed condition: complicated grief. It wasn’t recreational. It wasn’t evidence that I was unstable. It was treatment for severe depression.
And somewhere in all of this, I even gave up my psychiatrist because my former boyfriend needed him more than I did. My Primary has agreed to write for these meds, but I’ve chosen a different path.
Looking back, there’s something deeply strange about that.
Because when someone knows you’re receiving mental-health treatment, that information shouldn’t become ammunition during conflict. “You need your meds” and “you’re on too many meds” cannot both become convenient explanations for whatever someone dislikes about you that day.
So no, I’m not going to let this label stick.
Maybe everyone else is right.
I’ve stopped cold turkey before so this should be no different.
The meds are all almost gone and I’m leaving it that way.
The label of faking everything to make things appear so good is gone.
Everybody wanted the real version of Jimilyn.
Well, we’re getting ready to meet her. 💯
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