The drugs work, mostly.
I'm still prone to depressive episodes and states of total anxiety. I feel hopeless during these periods but I'm more prepared to believe that it will end. Though more and more the state of affairs in this world chill me to the bone and I wonder if I will live out a natural life. I fear the future because the cost of living is so expensive and I don't think I'm mentally strong enough to sustain a full time job. You apply pressure to me and I begin to crack, slowly at first, then I get anxious, irritable, stressed and finally properly depressed. Weak in the head and not equipped for life.
The drugs work, mostly.
But I've put on 8-10kg without noticing and before I knew it I no longer fit into my shorts, some of my t-shirts, my skirts, my jeans.... everything. I've always had such a complex about my weight, but I didn't bat an eyelid at the side effect of weight gain. You just always hope that those thinks won't happen to you. But it's so common and I was so, so naive and now I pay the price with obesity. I don't know whether to restrict my eating or purge. I tried restricting but I no longer have the discipline to maintain that. And people just encourage you to eat. There's always dinners, events, parties. Occasions based around food. Expectations that you'll eat and eat well. I can no longer see my feet due to the size of my gut.
I do pilates and I just joined a gym. I know that hard work will pay off and I miss the sensations of strength and accomplishment that accompanied a session at the gym. But it's discouraging that this is what happened to me. A slap in the face that no matter how hard I try I'll always end up fat if I slip up.
The drugs work, mostly.
I sleep at night now. I take my meds and sleep comes quickly to this reformed night owl. But increasingly it is hard to wake up and I feel foggy during the day. Like I haven't woken up in all. It didn't start out like this, with the drugs. It simply crept up on me and one day I realised I was sleeping without sleeping. Eternally tired. Why won't it end?
The drugs work, mostly.
The sticky tendrils of my mental illness reach into my relationship less. I know I'm more stable and I hope he worries less. I don't lie awake at night long after he's fallen asleep, busy with worries. I don't cry like I once did, hiding in his arms. But we both know it's still there, and we both see it grab hold and dissipate as it will. It's terrible to acknowledge it's place in what is ours, but maybe it won't be so forever. Maybe.
The drugs work, mostly.
But I still suffer. Intermittently, but I suffer.
