I don’t think about why I’m taking my medicine anymore.
In the beginning, I knew each pill was a step in the right direction, perfectly calibrated to make life more bearable and help me work through my depression. Turn my baseline anxiety from an 8 to a 3, which keeps me from reaching a 10 and tracing door frames with my eyes in stressful situations.
Tonight was the first time in a long time I noticed the bottle in my hand as I fished a pill. Maybe because my bottle was in the living room instead of the bedroom. It made me remember why I fill my prescription every month. I don’t want to forget to breathe when I’m anxious, or to replace negative thoughts with positive thoughts, or reminding myself that no task is as important as being in a good mental space. Because without working on myself, the medication won’t work.