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3/30/18 -- 5:35 PM

It's been about a week since I started taking Wellbutrin. So far, no horrifying
side effects. They say it takes 6 weeks for it to actually start being
effective.

I'm still sad, but it isn't as crippling as it used to be. I'm not sure if
that's just confirmation bias, this is a different kind of sadness, if the
medicine is working...
    So many possibilities. Will I ever know?

I hate medication. Specifically, I hate anti-drugs. Anti-anxiety,
antidepressants. Those are features of your identity, aren't they? Those
struggles have shaped how you interact with the world, how you carved out your
space. Are you admitting that you don't like your corner of the world when you
take these pills?
    Are you admitting you hate yourself?

I'm not sure how I feel about myself. I mean, it's complicated. I like me, but I
know what I've done, what I've thought, what I've felt.

    I don't like a lot of those things.

It always seems like there's something going on to keep me from being _just_
happy. Always something to make me sad, anxious, worried, upset, confused. Major
crises that rip me apart, leaving me to reassemble a life from the ashes left
behind.
    But isn't the clay bowl all the more strong for being in the fire?

I'd like to think that I've always been able to put everything back together.
Patch up the holes, stitch up the splits, repaint the burn marks.
But maybe I was just using scotch tape and that's why it kept falling apart in
the first place.

I haven't written about Elise. I haven't really thought of her, either.

Does that make me a bad person? Maybe I know this was going to happen all those
years ago.
    But she stopped me from wanting to kill myself.

The dreams about Julie have started up again. The settings are always different
but the content is all the same. Why do these dreams keep happening. Did I
really lose the one I loved the most? Will I ever feel that way about anyone
else, ever?

Why does that hurt so much more to write than to think.


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