Today was Day 11 of Wellbutrin. Of my attempt to hurl myself into a happier life. The newness of the medication, and any placebo effect that may have accompanied it, has worn off. I only occasionally feel a change.
If I’m being honest, I know home hasn’t been good for me. I’ve been isolated in a bubble with solely my own thoughts and the potential to continually analyze the state of my own happiness, or lack thereof.
I tried a full-honesty policy with Mom and Dad. When Dad makes statements about how I need to control my mind, that I’m letting my emotions control me, or that I need to exercise more, I tell him that’s ridiculous and detrimental to my mental health. When Mom says she wishes she could help or when she starts crying, I tell her how guilty that makes me feel. How I feel responsible for this depression. How I wish I could actually control this.
Everyone keeps asking, “why?” Why do I feel this way? I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair. As I said when I first started Wellbutrin, I just realized that I’ve endured a lot of trauma.
I used to believe I was an ENFP. However, I’ve realized that my first reaction to life’s stressors is not emotion. I think. I think. I think. I take action. I haven’t ever actually dealt with everything I’ve gone through.
When I feel myself being crushed by the incredible weight of a horrible situation, I claw myself out, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. But I never worry about the broken limbs. I just limp away.
I need something to fix. I’ve always had something to fix. But now, I’m being dragged down with no weights to cut off of me. No job to quit. No career changes to make. Nothing can change because I have the perfect life track. Who would want to mess that up?
The medication should kick in in about two weeks. I can keep holding on.
But I’m afraid, if I’m being honest. So afraid.