I have the dreadful tendency to refuse to see that I may need medications as much as any one else. Like, it’s all very well for friends to take meds, and they have surely helped, I feel absurdly different when I think about them being prescribed to me. Like, what’s wrong with me? How is this going to change me? What are the side-effects? How is this going to interact with other meds and drugs? And what disease do they think I have that they believe this medication will help? I geusse I still have a lot of suspicion/cynicism about the whole thing from when I was institutionalized, even now so many years later. It’s been seven years, sometimes it feels like decades longer and sometimes like only a couple years. I cannot stand being lied to/misled, especially when it is “for my own good”. And I did so shitty on Prozac. And Zoloft. And then they wanted me to go on that epilepsy medication with weekly bloodchecks for liver damage….ugh. God only knows what that would have done to me. Anyways, I know I have problems with depression (see, that’s why I do this ‘cause I probably couldn’t admit that directly to anyone) and I know, through logic and a surfeit of psychological reading that depression is a clinical/behavioral problem and is best treated through a combined approach of medication and therapy. But God, what does it say about me for that to be so nessesary? I’m afraid of my parents being right. I’m afaraid that doing any kind of therapy-meds thing is tantamount to admitting I am actually mentally ill (which is basicly what it means) and they will be proved right all along. Do you know how many times the father has informed me of my impending schitzophrenia over the years? And even though I should know better, even though I am perfectly well aware that he is the last man on earth whose judgement I should trust in anything, every once in a while I believe him. What other kind of escape can there be?

¶ 5:36 AM