Darkness and back again

Maybe I write this because I feel like I have to tell you about one of my real illnesses. Is it depression, anxiety you name it? People wonder why I don’t drink. People think I am positive but a bit neurotic and a total hypochondriac. People wonder why I am happy I am not homeless on the street. I tell you why, because the edge is ever near. Because there’s a thin line between me and the bag lady.
It’s in my genes. On both sides. A touch of narcissism, a blend of sensitivity and fragility mixed with selfishness and dreams. A weakness. I hate it. But it has made me who I am. Take those genes and let me be raised by a mother with similar disposition.
I had a “heart attack” when I was five, I cried until I could get my will, I behaved selfishly and got bullied because of it. I had every possible disease I could imagine. Why? I don’t know. I always felt like an outcast I never quite got it. My parents told me to be more organized, calmer, less sensitive. It didn’t work.
On the edge of becoming an adult I went into darkness. I got week, dizzy. All I did was lying in my bed while my parents desperately tried to help me. I ate too much, slept too much. Stopped caring about everything. I got panic. The only safe haven was my bed and my sleep. I didn’t have a core. Every noise, every touch, every sensation invaded my brain and threatened to destroy me. My sense of time disappeared. Strong audio stimulation stuck to my brain. I remember listening to Mozarts requiem, when I turned the record off I could still hear the choirs in my head. I watched the paintings on the walls and they winked at me. Fuzzyness, dizziness, feeling of wanting to run, run and never stop. And yet so tired. No borders between me and my limbs. Heart throbbing, the only things I could know was my bodily sensations. I don’t drink because being drunk feels like being my kind of crazy. I would never ever do anything to make me feel like that again.

I slipped out of madness. Then fell back again, and again, and again. Hurting my parents and friends. I could never trust myself. Not really.
Then a miracle, that made therapy possible. I have read a lot about, Prozac, sertraline, and not all good things. But for me it has been, I am not sure it still is. Sertralin affecting my serotonine levels. After a month on that medication, I had boundaries. I had a core. I stopped having panicattacks. I could be organized. I got smarter. I can’t explain what happened. The medication made it possible for me to get a life.
I have hope again. But I still got mental problems, or issues, or what you choose to call them. The doctors asked if I will increase the dose. I am not sure. This anxiety is not the panicattackone, it is not about depression. This is something else. This is about facing life and grabbing it with both hands. This is about choosing to live and not running away.

More about medication on another post.