Day 76


The magic pill – the glorious gift Family Doctor feels would make my guilt go away, the wondrous worry-waster that would soothe my woe-begotten mind, the nourishment that would nix the nasty necromancer that I call the blackness.

Staying up at night spinning out of control = gone.

Worrying about what I look like in the mirror = gone.

Not appreciating the wonderful things that life and my world present to me = gone.

Overthinking decisions that otherwise should be routine = gone.

Attacking myself for wanting to sit down or read or rest = gone.

Not having the strength to follow through with my food-decisions to not skip meals or not eat too much bulk = gone.

The debilitating amount of effort it takes to look up = gone.

Not being able to find quiet, calm, peace = gone.

It is an amazing proposition.  It would take the strain off my relationships, take the focus off me so we can focus on our marriage, take the distractions away so I can look up.  It makes sense that he would be adamant about it given my brother’s diagnosis (mental illness can be genetically connected) is significant, my previous use of pills and his “wheelhouse,” but it really does sound too good to be true.  I am not confident yet with taking this on ourselves.  Taking this recovery in our hands seems dicey and therefore, I am shaky, I am wavering and I doubt.  That is probably from where the “gone” statements arise.  So when I have a trained professional tell me that pills will be the end to my troubles, the lack of confidence and self-worth listens.  It still is talking as I write, as I’m trying to find the courage to battle through and stay the course.

Occam’s Razor: entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily, or in less confusing terms, the most likely explanation is usually the right one.  The magic pill is a nice dream, but I have never been an unrealistic dreamer.  I am a realistic dreamer too full of heart and so I avoid unrealistic dreams to avoid disappointment, sadness, unfulfillment.  This magic pill is something I let myself unrealistically dream about, which is why I can’t let it go, why I can’t brush it off, why it hurts my heart so fucking much.  “Some people care too much. I think it’s called love” – A.A. Milne.


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