This is a scary post for me, but I just finished reading Divergent by Veronica Roth and I'm feeling a little Dauntless. I don't like talking about the anxiety and depression that has stalked me as far back as I can remember, and for the most part other people don't like hearing about it. Can I blame them? It has always seemed self-indulgent and even immoral to be unhappy in the midst of such wealth, living like a queen in my first world country, surrounded by love.
And yet. Right or wrong, these are the scenes of my life, a steady slide show of panic and exhaustion slapping me brutally and helplessly between them. Four years ago, I finally sat in my doctor's office shaking and crying as I asked her for a referral to a psychiatrist to find out what the hell had always been wrong with me, and why I was such an ungrateful bitch. After 2 hours of discussion, I left clutching a prescription like a lifeline, hoping I'd found my saviour at last.
The next few days were euphoric, like the first time I put on glasses and saw the crisp, beautiful world that had belonged to everyone else all this time. Weeks, months and then years went by in a comfortable, lulling rhythm, the sky always a pleasant shade of light blue with no clouds in sight. I smiled softly as I ambled along the peaceful corridors of my new life, smoothing my hands over the extra weight that settled like wet sand around my calm body. It took me a long time to realize something was missing.
I want my soul back. Edgy and prickly it may be, but it's who I am - that fire pulsing in my veins, the passion surging through me until I throw my head back in the lightning and thunder and shout with the power of it. Spinning sleekly through the minefields and laughing in the face of it all when I get back up again, wiping that last blow off my cheek.
So the pills are gone for now and hard-core cardio workouts have taken their place, fueled by excitement and anger and grief and the whole blazing range of emotion. Because it's never too late to get it back.