Nonsensical

The drugs that will make me better will only make me worse.

I hate this. I hate myself. Everything was fine a couple years ago. I was happy, and it was thanks to anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills. My daily routine worked well for me for a while. My family life was getting better, my friends and I were getting along and for a time, everything was right in my world. I was happy, but I knew it was only because of the medication I was on. I couldn’t really be anything other than happy or okay. Or so I thought.

The downward spiral started out slow, as most things do. The anti depressants made me nervous and the anti anxiety meds made me a blank slate. I was eventually taken off the anti depressant. My anxiety got worse, to the point where I would have panic attacks almost daily. I would go to the hospital and have another one because hospitals make me nervous. I was in an endless cycle of what felt like dying and waking back up. My heart would race, nausea would set in, and my vision would blur, I’d take a pill and everything would be okay. Not great, certainly not calm, but okay. The physical symptoms would be gone but in my mind were a thousand thoughts at once. I perscribed myself marijuana. It helped a little, but I didn’t want to become dependent on it. My family is a little anti-drugs because they think I’m so smart and so special and I am too good for all of that. Funny, take one look at our medicine cabinet and tell me my entire family isn’t hooked on something. Then again, none of them went to college or suceeded in anything.

Then my Dad got sick again. My brother got arrested for selling weed, my friends and I grew apart and fought all the time, my other brother attempted suicide, my grandmother told us she was done with living, my mom started drinking heavily again, as did her boyfriend (they probably had all along but the drugs kept me in a happy, oblivious bubble). All of this in a few months time. It was too much. I started popping pills like candy. At first it was my own, then I raided my dads medications, sold some to buy others. I was spiraling out of control and I didn’t know how to stop it, or if I even wanted to. I would get my perscriptions re-filled until the pharmacist started looking at me funny. The cops came, I was almost arrested, instead I just went to the psych ward. I was there two days and my therapist got me out, after I told her I would straighten out. I didn’t, it got worse. I snorted pretty much anything you could crush into powder, including cocaine. Those who were once my enemies were now “friends.” I almost died a few times. I went to the hospital twice after overdosing and stopping my heart once.

The scariest part was, I wasn’t scared. I was nothing. I went through the motions during the day and spun out of control at night until I passed out. I couldn’t get rid of the thoughts in my head though. They always came back. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking like that, like I didn’t want to live. I knew that, so I tried to hide it, to cover it all up and make it go away. But it never went away. I was still anxious and nervous. The drugs became a physical dependence. I needed them to feel my version of normal. I was so mixed up. Everything is fuzzy. It scares me that I don’t remember certain parts of my life. I know its my fault. I could have handled it better.

Now I have all the old feelings back. I’m having panic attacks. I’m anxious and nervous. Its hard to deal with without being able to pop a pill and make it go away. It takes hours to calm down instead of minutes. I’m starting to feel depressed again. My thoughts are scattered and dark. I’m having nightmares. I can’t do anything about it. The doctor won’t perscribe anything for me because I was a drug abuser. I haven’t asked, because if she does give me something I’m too scared I will abuse it again. I don’t know what to do. I’m so messed up. I want to get better. I need to get better. I don’t want to feel like this. I shouldn’t feel like this. I need help.