It will probably surprise no one reading this to hear that I have AGAIN come to the brilliant conclusion that:
1. The drugs aren’t working. THEY AREN’T WORKING, DAMMIT.
And
2. That in addition to better, more worky-type drugs, perhaps a little tiny eencie-weencie smidgen of therapy might do me some good.
Okay, you can all stop rolling your eyes now.
You see, the thing is (or, rather, the things are), I’ve been up and down this supposed road to supposed psychiatric health so many times, you’d think I’d have it all figured out by now. Or something. SOME. THING. A single, solitary thing figured out, at the very least. But no, it seems there’s always some new road construction popping up, creating detours and traffic blockages… and I’m tired of this metaphor already. Sorry. BUT the point is, I’ve been on just about every antidepressant known to humankind, and all of them have been fair-to-middling in terms of the relief I’ve experienced. So perhaps I’m just naturally depressed, and should lie down in some nice, quiet, dewy field somewhere and calmly accept my fate. It sure would be the easier path to take, and believe me, I’ve thought about it. A lot.
