Zoloft disguises my anger.
Makes me not feel. Makes me not care. Makes me spend time with my daughter while exuding the excitement of drywall. I don’t snap at her, but I don’t cause her to giggle with delight. I don’t invent games or give dolls funny voices or create enthralling stories with exciting plot twists. I just sit.
“Can I play in traffic mom?” She could ask me at any time. “Sure sweetie.” Would be my immediate reply. “Why not. Sounds fun. Just let mommy sit here and think nothing thoughts.”
Zoloft Makes me stare. Makes me stare at the wall and notice discrepancies in paint patterns that I didn’t notice before. Makes my spite dry up like stale vomit. Makes my former occasional spews of vitriol disappear like paper food stamps.
Makes me eat. Makes me eat with abandon. Makes me eat some more. Makes me gain 20 pounds in a month and shrug it off. Makes me not cry. Makes my white hot rage simmer to nothing. No venom. No happy. No spontaneous moments of excitement.
Zoloft makes me agreeable. Makes me the same as every one else. Makes me forget that there was something I was supposed to remember.
Prozac smothers my anger.
Makes me notice that my toes are different looking than I previously thought. Makes me notice my nostrils are asymmetrical. Makes me not care too much if they are. Makes me hear things. Makes me want to stab myself with scissors. Makes me not cry. Makes me not run. Makes me not appreciate music or books or “friends.” Makes me cringe when I think of talking or writing or breathing.
Makes me eat. Makes me eat like I’m a middle aged bulimic entitled housewife. Or a college professor on sabbatical. Makes me eat anything in my way or anything trying to get out of my way.Makes me not feel. Makes me forget that I’m supposed to be fighting for something. Makes me forget how to fight. That there is still something worth fighting for. Makes my spite seem childish and cute.
Prozac makes me flat line.
I don’t want my feelings to go away. Why would I want to take a pill that puts me right back into the same state of denial I have been floating around in for the past three decades?
I want my rage. I want my spite. I want my voice and my past and my ability to turn them into something that matters. Don’t try to take what I have earned by shoving me full of anti depressants and giving me a wink and telling me it will be okay.
Isn’t that what everyone says now? Well I have plenty of worries darling.
I’m not depressed.
I’m fucking pissed off.
Don’t take that away from me.
It’s not yours to take.
(Side note for those overly invested and or keeping track, I am not currently on any medication. These are thoughts from when I was. My next blog might be about the judgement sometimes unfairly thrust on those who legitimately need these types of medications. They do work for some people.)