I cried all last night. My boyfriend was, of course, teasing me—not because he meant to, but because he’s some sort of pseudo-autistic boy who really can’t help it. At least, that’s his excuse. When he ignores me to play computer games, forgets promises that he’s made to me and breaks them, it’s not because he’s selfish; that couldn’t be. He was trained that way by his upbringing, and did I mention that he thinks he’s sort of autistic? Couldn’t be his fault. It’s genetics—or at least his parents.
On the other side you have me, the crying one. The one who suffers panic attacks sometimes. I’m anxious and nervous and so easily irritated. The boyfriend’s selfishness—or his autism, whatever—is of course no good for me. I’m too needy. I had a bad upbringing, too, with the parents who didn’t love me enough. You can psychoanalyze and see how everything is my parents’ fault. I believe that wholeheartedly, but I’m annoyed at the therapist anyway because I’ve been to seven sessions and this depression and anxiety isn’t clearing up. If I’d gone to the dermatologist seven times, I’m sure I could get a bout with acne cleared up.
She should have started helping me by now, right? She wants to give me pills. It wouldn’t be too unusual; everyone takes pills for everything. I bet the boyfriend could find pills for the selfishness. Down the street, to the family doctor—even they can scribble a prescription for SSRIs if you’re having a bad day and feel sort of crummy. I would probably go along with it, except for my mistrust with doctors. They just want to give me pills and get money off of me. Maybe if boyfriend drives me to it. How many crying spells and anxiety attacks can I deal with before caving into it? And of course I can’t actually get over it myself. I’m stuck with this label of depression unless I go to more therapy and get on some meds. Real meds, that is; not the self-medication of the alcohol.
Sometimes boyfriend and I get along better when we’re on vacation. But generally, we’re so stressed out with all the work we have to do. No wonder America loves the pills, if they live like this. Probably makes getting over it so much easier, so much easier to deal with. The boyfriend’s father takes Clonazepam, some super high-powered anti-anxiety medication. Besides that, he’s an insomniac.
I wonder why these mental illnesses abound in America these days. I mean, isn’t anything a personality quirk? So what if your mother was a little irresponsible? It always comes back to being somehow raised the wrong way. It leads to depression and anxiety or anger issues or somehow, autism. This isn’t just minor sadness or irritation or selfishness; it pervades deep to our inner cores. We can’t fix our own lives, either. We’re too stressed out, with school or work, so we just eat some pills (or perhaps pot brownies) like so much candy. And of course they make us feel better, but again I wonder if I should try to not be so sensitive. But no, that wouldn’t work. I was raised poorly, and I can only overcome it chemically. I’ll make another appointment with the good doctor, and ask her for some of that Clonazepam.
