The medicine bag

And now, on to the medicine bag. Oh, the fucking medicine bag. I can still hear the rattling of the pills in my head. My mother carried it around with her wherever she went like it was a child’s blankie. It was filled with all of the powerful painkillers and sleep aids that she thought and hoped would make her pain and sorrow go away. Every now and again she would open the zipper that sealed the square, cloth-textured bag, shake a few of each pill into her hand, and would swallow then all in one fell swoop. As kids this is what we would witness day in and day out. We would be told to run upstairs and get Mommy’s medicine bag.

My wife is convinced that this constant image played a large part in molding my psyche. Mommy always complained that she was sick. And Mommy always had pills to take. Mommy always complained about things, and Mommy was always running to doctors. This, my wife, surmised, created the illusions that there was a benefit to constantly being sick and needy, in the form of attention and pity, and that there was always a doctor and a pill for everything.

And now my depression and anxiety have come as a result of my disillusionment. Finally, after all these years, I have come to a major realization: There is nothing and nobody except for you. And there are no pills or cures, only treatment and management of symptoms. In other words, you are on your own with God if you believe in that. Otherwise, except in the case of an extreme emergency requiring lifesaving or stabilizing medical procedures, there is pretty much nothing for anything.

Depression and anxiety? Well you can take an antidepressant, but: It will not cure your depression or help you get to the root of it and eliminate it. It will simply help you not feel the depression. But at the cost of being unable to feel too happy either. It’ll also diminish or eliminate your sex drive. And the people who know you are on it will never feel like they are talking to you. They will inevitably feel as though they are talking to the medicated you, the medically tamed and controlled you. And that thought alone can make someone depressed. Then there are the side effects of suicidal thoughts and actions, and other physical symptoms including death. To top it off, there is the high chance of becoming dependent on the drugs, tolerant of the drugs and needing stronger doses to feel the same effect, as well as the nasty withdrawal effects.

(Starting with my next post, the self-therapy begins. It's a long journey, but every journey starts with but a single step. And I'm still on that journey. Buckle up!)