I’m noticing a pattern as the medication builds in my body, making me stable, desensitized. Is that what being stable is? Feeling a micro-fraction of emotions, constantly in a grey zone?
I’ve had less drastic spikes in my moods, a reduction in the chaos of my mind and lack of concern for being alive. But in return my creative valve has been turned off. I feel no desire to write, not a lack of inspiration, but as if I am no longer a writer. My pen has dried, my mind does not flow the way it once did.
These pills are supposed to block the excited states, but they’re also blocking a large part of who I am. I feel confused, unsure what to do or who I am. I reach out to those I trust most, but unfortunately they’re also some of those who have been burned by my unsteady states. So when I ask if I should stop my medication they jump to an explosive “no”, recalling a time they do not wish to revisit. It is best for them, and my relationships, but is it best for me? Is it worth losing part of my self, as if it were surgically removed, barely having a presence, though I feel the empty space where it once was?
I feel selfish for considering going back to a time which burned so many I loved, but I feel overly selfless by stifling the flow which makes me a poet.
I’ve always had an affinity for Van Gogh, the actions he took in his most unstable states, and the art he created at the time. Relating to the depression and drastic actions one may take in hopes of finding happiness again. But I wonder, am I more like him in other ways as well? He is said to exemplify the point where madness and creativity meet, blend, succeed, and I am recognizing my creativity thrives in my madness, dries in the stability of medication. Will I pursue his path? His ending? Will the artist win out, or the societal member?