Angry tears blur my eyes, but not my vision. I still see my “medication shelf” as a root of failure. It is time for bed and my routine consists of brushing my teeth and taking my nite meds. For the most part, I do this as matter of ritual not thinking, just doing. However, on this particular occasion I cannot stop staring and judging the tiny shelf in the hallway closet that houses my psychotropic medications. The width of this closet is probably only 1 foot, yet it feels like a deep cavern full of dark shadows that hosts my inner demons from time to time. The voice inside my head leaps out from behind the plastic bottles of pills and reveals I am flawed, crazy, broken, quite possibly beyond repair. 2 steps from the closet is the bathroom mirror, it too reflects an insufficiency. Self hatred rises and falls in those tears. Relief from this inward dissension can only be found in sleep.
My depression runs deep. It continues to claw and tear at my soul. Scatter chatter rummages through my mind searching for failures and inadequacies sometimes every minute of every day, but sometimes not. There is no cure for depression, but there is armor I can use to protect myself at least a little bit. It is found on a shelf in my hallway, in my house, where I am in charge.
Authored by Fanatic.
It is better to seek forgiveness than it is permission.