bloodyrosemccoy | Bad Sign Number Six Million And Seventeen

Here is the entirety of the last sentence at the very bottom of the “about your medication” sheet for this round of Fukitol:

CONTACT YOUR DOCTOR AT ONCE if

Good to know they're looking out for me.

I’ve been having to censor myself from the world recently. Sometimes that happens—I become unable to shoulder the weight of the world, from social injustice to overly emotional movies. The low-level panic attack I’ve mentioned can flare into something not-so-low at the slightest provocation. Last time I had to do that was in high school, when I would refuse to take an interest anything I could get even slightly emotionally invested in because it would trigger panic that the thing I was invested in would Come To No Good. I didn’t want to bury my head in the sand for the rest of my life, but I remember explaining to someone it was like a raw wound—not something you’d expose to even normal elements or wear and tear until it got back its normal strength and resilience.

I’ve tapered enough off of Failed Fukitol Trial #1 to start Hopefully Not Failed Fukitol Trial#2 today. Let’s see if it works.

Also! I wasn't going to bandwagon onto a fandom I'm not really into, but this image of Rorschach is pretty much dead-on to my own feelings about antidepressants.