That one med I quit taking because I couldn’t stay awake — I can’t remember the name, because I was asleep. My med organizer is basically a candy dish — at least that colorful, but not as delicious.
Pharmaceuticals keep me (mostly) sane. And alive. I’m grateful for that. Mostly.
I don’t ever miss wanting to die. I don’t miss the self-loathing that is a byproduct of the guilt of the feeling of wanting to die. I don’t miss the hopelessness, the frustration, the certainty that everyone knows how inept I am (they’re just waiting for me to fall on my face so they can say, “I told you so”).
I do miss being horny. Like HORNY HORNY. I miss feeling the sexual fire smoldering in that place where sexual fires smolder — be it a real or imagined actual location.
I admit, some of this might be age-related. But whether it’s age or medication effects or Mercury in retrograde, it’s bullshit.
And by bullshit, I mean BULLSHIT.
I don’t have all the answers, but I do have some suggestions. Some of them are a little graphic. You’ve been warned.