When I was younger, I used to want to write.
I spent hours writing. Everything and anything, I was actually a fabulous creative writer.
I struggled a fair bit with my unmedicated mental illness as a younger person, and writing was like therapy to me. It was my way of being mindful, I guess you might say, ignoring the fact that writing a story takes you away from reality and away from the moment. It was how I coped, focusing on my next word, or my next sentence, rather than crippling anxiety about sitting in a classroom or being alone at home.
As I got older, my passion for writing faded. It just wasn’t the same anymore, I was also medicated and in therapy.
I guess I realised, as I went back on Lexapro this time around, that being medicated stifles my creativity. It removes my ability to write, to put a story together. Not only am I not capable of writing a paragraph that makes sense, I am also virtually incapable of sitting there and thinking about what comes next.
I don’t know if I feel like I don’t have a story to tell, or if I have no imagination left.
My creative abilities didn’t just disappear, I lack the ability to put sentences together in a clear and concise way. I often find myself having to explain what I meant the first time around, to my partner, to my colleagues, to my friends.
Here’s why none of that matters:
When I am medicated, I am free. I am happy, I am loved.
And that’s all I need.