While walking to work yesterday, I had to gather all of my will power (which admittedly, isn’t much to begin with) not to cry. Why? Why, on a beautiful Friday morning, would I be at risk for bursting out in tears when there’s nothing easily identifiable that could possibly be causing me distress?
Well, first of all, I was sick, which automatically heightens the crying potential. But also, I was doing what I’ve been doing for an unhealthy amount of time now–thinking about how my day would be different if I were still dating some guy I dated briefly a couple of months ago.
For some reason, I can’t let go of the alternate realities I have in my head concerning this particular person. Pointless musings. And yet, simply because I had this dumb connection with someone that maybe I made up in the first place just because he was hilarious and made fun of me in the way I can’t resist, I find I can’t stop thinking about those other universes where we’re awesome together and key word together.
At the moment I almost let tears slip out of my eyes, I thought, Maybe I really should take something for this.
Maybe there really is a clinical diagnosis for my mind’s inability to let go. It’s possible I’m not just obsessing over something that is a waste of time and brainpower because I’m an idiot; maybe there’s something treatable going on here.
In the past, when I’ve gone a bit off the deep end into the pool of emotions, someone once suggested I consider going to a therapist–which, yeah, was probably a good idea to prevent me from spewing my crazy thoughts without proper compensation. Actual medication was never something I ever considered though. I’m not that messed up, I thought.
Only yesterday did I genuinely question whether medicine could help with the kind of thoughts that run rampant after a person has extricated himself from my life and my mind refuses to properly dispose of his remains.
Only–I’m worried about the side effects.
Because yes, I’m ridiculously sensitive, fiercely loyal, and stupidly trusting. If medication could regulate those qualities and allow me to act somewhat sane, sure, I maybe would have spent last night being taken care of by someone who loved me instead of pathetically lying on the couch willing myself to feel better. But I also wouldn’t be me. And while I’m still working on getting others to agree, I am great. I like me. If I took medication to fix the parts that some might consider broken, not only would I no longer recognize myself, but I have a feeling I’d be kind of normal in a sort of boring way.
I’d rather be alone than boring.
(Which is convenient, since I am alone.)
The other reason I don’t want to take medication is if I did, and I became normal, then what would happen to that guy out there who’s hilarious and silly and loyal and trusting and weird and a perfect fit for me? I don’t know that we’re going to meet each other and get married and spend the rest of our days being dysfunctional together, but I don’t want to completely take away the possibility of it happening. I just couldn’t do that to him, knowing we’re kindred spirits and all. So don’t worry, future husband, I’m staying the way I am so the potential for us to find each other remains. No medication here.
I mean, except the kind for lingering flu-like symptoms. Plenty of medication for that going on right now.