To Medicate?

Well, today’s first real therapy appointment was no different than the first time I presented my anxiety disorder to a GP.

I left the office, unimpressed and angry. Faint streaks of mascara were camouflaged by the appearance of dark circles, beneath my eye. I was sure this time would be different: A real therapist would focus on getting me away from meds–not tripling my consumption.

So now I will take two pills a day(Celexa and Paxil only pestered my pride once an evening), knowing that this number could double, if the frequency of my attacks persist.

Or do I? Today’s conundrum.

In the past 22 days, I have achieved mental clarity, which I haven’t felt in years. Ten days into the New Year, I was completely and utterly over the man, who I thought ruined me.

It took seven months to recover from seven years.

I also felt as if I had a grasp on my “drinking problem”; I could go a week without a drink, have a drink with dinner and not feel off the wagon.

But then again, is it healthy for me to self diagnose?

While off my daily meds: I smiled again, albeit drowning in tears, when confronted with the holidays; I felt lively again! Regardless of how irrational my demeanor was, I had moments of unadulterated happiness.

I could further break.

If I start in the morning.

Just slide through monotony.

If I start in the morning.

Happy won’t be quite as happy.

When I start in the morning.

I’ll leap back into numbness.

What would you choose: Crippling trepidation or an anesthetized existence?

I’ve weathered both sides of my coin and I can’t tell heads from tails.

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