As my psych meds clear out of my system, I’m noticing an unsurprising phenomenon. What used to be physically uncomfortable agitated mania has become simply anger. The automatic suppression of anger by medication has been replaced by a need for self-censorship. I find myself stopping after speaking just a couple words, or erasing a potentially offensive online diatribe. My soapbox is getting heavy; and I’m tired of putting it down, only to whisk it away at the last minute before hurtful vitriol comes pouring out of my mouth.
That’s a good thing, right? I’m “feeling” again as well as self-regulating. But at what cost? Am I becoming that stereotypical crazy woman? “Just ignore her, she’s off her meds, poor thing.”
Where’s the line between sanity and insanity? Where’s that Goldilocks middle ground of “just right?” And if it does exist how does one find it – medically, holistically, spiritually? Who has the fucking formula for bliss?
I’m angry that I don’t have, nor will I ever have, the answer. I’m angry that I’m angry.