We All Medicate

I've learned that we all medicate. Some more than others. I medicate constantly because I hate life.  And I don't hate it because there's anything wrong, or my life is terrible.  I hate it because I'm not happy.  I haven't been happy for years; in fact, I haven't been happy since I was about twelve.

Now,  you might think that sounds terrible, like I'm some kind of pathetic person who has no desire, or ambition, or loved ones.  Well that's not true.  I just have a problem.  A disorder.  I've realized that for some people happiness is easy.  They just live life happy.  "It's great to be alive," they say.  They get up every morning and wonder how someone could be down.

Well, welcome to the clinically disturbed.  My life is one constant struggle to want to be anything other than dead. I have to convince myself to go to sleep at night, knowing that if I go to sleep the morning will come.  I have to convince myself to get up, knowing that the day will bring more hurt and maybe even despair.  For about twenty-five years now I've been living with the feeling that two invisible hands are wrapped around my heart, crushing it.  My heart feels heavy most all the time, even when there's nothing to be sad about.

But! I no longer medicate by staying in bed for weeks at a time. I no longer hurt others just to feel that someone cares.  At least not most of the time. And I don't view the world through cold, angry eyes. I've gotten over that.  I realize I can't despair.  I can't quit.  And, I can't die.  

But it's work.  Every day it's work.  Painstaking, heart-aching work.  Thank goodness food has gotten me through.  Food has been my drug. Taken with the desire to feel this elusive thing called happiness that comes so easy to others.  I work for happiness, hating my disorder, and wait with an eye toward a day where it won't feel so hard just to live.  

Now, how to medicate myself without food?  That's the real challenge.