And I'm nervous. It's been a month since my first appointment so she's probably going to put me on medication.

There's just so many thoughts running through my head. My therapist said that if I want, I should request something for my anxiety. Not something to take on a regular basis but just when it gets super bad. But I had taken Xanax before and it affected me so horribly. I really hate medications (for myself, not in the grand scheme of things).

And I'm just nervous in general. Like, what if what she puts me on makes me sick or fucks with my moods? What if she's wrong and I'm NOT bipolar and she puts me on the wrong thing? Am I going to be able to drink on whatever she puts me on? Not that I'm a raging drunk but I like to drink with my friends from time to time or have a glass of wine at night. Am I going to have to stop living my life now? Will I be numb? Will I be sick? How many meds will she put me on? Will I be on one or 10? Do I need that many just to be normal?

How long will they take to take effect? How long should I suffer through side effects before it's too long? When will I know if they're not working? How will I know?

What if they make me sad? Or stupid? Or angry, or mean or psychotic? Various meds in the past have made me all of those things.

It's times like these where I'm all psht, I'm fine. I don't need meds. I'm not even gonna go tomorrow! DAMN THE MAN.


Then I remember how terrified I was during my last depressive state, and the one before it. Where for the first time in 22 years, literally THE FIRST TIME even though I've been depressed on and off my whole life, I legit had the thought "I want to kill myself."

No matter how dark things have gotten, no matter how much I may have wanted to disappear, I have NEVER, not once, thought I wanted to die.

"I want to kill myself."

I'm still in awe that the thought crossed my mind not once, but twice. I had never been so scared in my life. Because it...hmm, let me explain this the best I can. It didn't feel like I thought that I, myself, was having. It didn't feel like an action I was going to take. The logical part of my brain was there, and it kicked it immediately and I was able to get past it. Instead it felt like...a disease. Something that was going to kill me. Not me, I wasn't going to kill me. The depression was.


My therapist said it's good that I'm still able to separate myself from my depression, and was able to get past that thought. I'm just afraid for the day I won't be able to do that.

So I'm going tomorrow. The Prince is coming with me. I didn't want to go alone. I'm still scared, but I know there are definitely worse things to be scared of.

I'm supposed to be doing things. Making a list of questions for the psychiatrist and a list of all medications I've been on that had adverse reactions. Instead I'm smoking and drinking some gross ass Rolling Rock (beer flavored water, for those not in the know) and trying to convince myself to put this bottle of ketchup away.