Those damn pills. I hate them, but I need them. I haven’t been taking my anti-depressants. Sometimes I’ll stop taking them so I can feel. Sometimes I stop taking them to create with emotion. Sometimes I stop taking them because I really want to enjoy sex. Sometimes I stop taking them because I need a good cry. What I tend to forget is down side…there is no balance.
Mood swings. Rage that feels all too consuming and vile, which keeps my stomach in knots. Guilt and regret stumble in like intrusive drunks that drink all my energy. Being so vulnerable, that the slightest emotional wind knocks me to my knees, with a swift punch to the kidney. Bouts of tears, despair, mania and anger, swirl into my own internal storm: My own Isaac.
I dug through my bag, and found that little opaque orange plastic bottle. My pills. Back to emotional stability. Back to functioning without tears and inner rage. Back to the balance and the numbness that comes with it. Back to reality, that I have yet to accept.
Oddly, I enjoy creating when I’m depressed. In the depths of being chemically imbalanced with melancholy music playing on repeat, I dance in the paint. How fucked up is that?
Time to get back to the easel.