Sacrifice

I hate the medication because it’s taken my poetry away. More specifically the Carbamazepine. I take as a mood stabilizer, and it works, which makes it all the more frustrating. The anger is contained, a lot of the ‘mild mania’ is subdued. A lot of the poetry is contained and subdued too, what with these being too of the strongest things I feel, the strongest emotions and energies. The Paroxetine dulls the depression, that comes and goes, and is combated by the medication alone right now (but therapy will come), and there is nothing else after that.

A lot of the time I feel numb and hat doesn’t make for good poetry. Or any poetry. Or anything at all.

So I’m forced into a choice, a sacrifice. My sanity or my poetry.

Without my medication, I’m a danger too myself. The scars are still fading from the last bout of depression, the last ‘mini-breakdown’. As the years go by, these breakdowns get worse, the medication gets increased and the cycle starts all over again. But every time, I get closer to death. I could loose my life.

No one ever died from poetry starvation.

(That I know of).

Doesn’t make it any easier, because I miss it. I’ve written one poem in the last three months. Plenty of other stuff, streams and reams of fanfic that has no consequence. Poetry has consequence, and I miss that, the importance that you can put into rhyme and form. Or not put in. That it can be both. God that sounds so pretentious. But I still miss it.

I’m not sure it’s worth it sometimes. My sanity for my poetry. The medication is vital and while some people will say, it’s only supposed to be a short term thing, for me, I think now. If it was a short term thing, I wouldn’t have been taking the paroxetine for over two years. Non of this is a short term thing, which is funny, because I’m a short term person. I don’t see too far ahead in my life. Not in a positive way.

Sometimes I like being alive, and there are reasons to be alive. But when writing is when of them and you can’t write because of what’s keeping you alive, if puts you in a quandary.

I’m not a person who can sit down to write. To go “I’m going to write some poetry now”. I’ll write anything, anywhere. I’m the person you see scribbling onto a newspapers, leaning on the bus stop because ‘Ihavetowritenownotimetostoptogetanotebookout‘. Does that make sense?

I don’t feel that urgency about anything at all right now.
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