"I, Brie, take you, Assorted Anti-depressants, to be my husband in helping maintain my sanity and breakdowns, to have and to swallow faithfully everyday, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, until death do us part."You may now swallow the pills.
I want a divorce, man.
For nine years I've been taking these little pills with promises of happiness, and really, they never deliver. At least, not how the commercials make them out to be. Have you seen the TV ad for Cymbalta? You feel so bad for the damn dog who wants its master to walk it, but poor Unnamed Woman is too busy being hopeless and incapacitated with grief and despair to get out of bed and walk Pooch. But then: TADA! In comes Cymbalta to the rescue, and suddenly she's laughing in some meadow or something playing frisbee with Pooch. And I'm sure the two of them live happily ever after. I mean, the ad wasn't that long, so I'll never really know, but I like to think it ends that way.
So I'm on Cymbalta, (among a few others) and I haven't had any kind of happy ending in a meadow or anything close to it. Maybe it's because I don't have a dog? I'm not sure. I may have to look into that. But that's not the point. The point is that I have been so dissatisfied over the years with my medication, that I always, about every year or so, try going off of all of them to see if my psyche can function without the help of manufactured happiness. And, apparently I can't. Last time I was off my medication, I nearly was hysterical because I had some freaky deaky auditory hallucination in which my Mental Kitten, Hairy, lost her arm. It was bad. Funny, but bad.
I am now forced to reconcile with the fact that there's pretty much oh, you know, a snowball's chance in Hiz-nell that I'll ever live this durn life without the aid of good 'ol manufactured happiness. Because as unsatisfied as I am with their productivity, apparently when I'm not on them, I go from being totally, you know, wack, to pretty pathetically out of wack. So it is with a very heavy heart I resign myself to this unhappy marriage I am in. I'll file no more petitions for divorce, and I'll keep swallowing the damn pills, because I have finally allowed myself to acknowledge the fact that I'm a crazy psycho raving bitch with out them. True dat.
Okay, I'm out folks. Much love. I gotta jet to the pharmacy for some more good 'ol happiness. Er, if not happiness, and no happy endings, then at least my cat keeps all of her limbs. And that's better than nothing, I guess. Yes. I think it is.
