Right now, I am angry. I am angry that this is my life. I am angry that my anxiety causes me to react to situations that I once wouldn’t have trembled at. I used to be so adventurous, NYC at 19 then again at 21. Austin at 24. Cali at 27. But then that ended. Last year, I tried to get it back – that vivacious quality I had, but it must have left with the parts of my mind that had already chosen to. I would never choose to go back to those places now, the ‘hustle and bustle’ isn’t for me any longer. And I am angry that I am writing that!
I am angry that I take 21 psychiatric pills a day. 21 fucking pills, as rustily scheduled as possible. Am I that ill? What is so wrong with me that I need such medication? It makes me sick to be so sick.
I’ve been given the stamp of mental illness. Four stays in a mental ward. One involving a strip search. Can you imagine what that does to someone, especially someone out of their head? Make her angry.
So, you know what I do? I write. I write to you, dear reader, and tell you it is okay to be pissed off about what this illness took or changed from your life or someone else’s And it is what it is and all that crap. And what is meant to be will be. And you are stronger than maybe someone else – and yes, while I believe that is true. I can still sometimes be angry.