As the sun rises and shines through the window I find myself sitting on the bed staring at the morning dew. Twenty-four hours and counting, my chest races and my ears pick up on the slightest sound sending me into a state of fear. My body shakes as anxiety rushes through me, and I quickly grab my medicine box to take what stops me from this endless cycle.
The blue and white pill is what I need the most, Ziprasidone or Geodon. An anti-psychotic that prevents me from going into a manic rage. I need it. I live for it because I’ve become dependent on it. The thought of losing it or having it taken away scares me. It’s my crutch that keeps my anxiety under control, and despite it not being an addictive medicine. I’m completely, and hopelessly addicted to it.
The other pills, Prozac and Vistril do nothing for me. At least, I can’t feel the effects like I can with Ziprasidone. I know what will happen if I abruptly stop taking it. I’ll become jittery, and my mind will be running a thousand miles per hour. Everything around me will become a threat and I’ll lock myself in my room while shutting the curtains to prevent prying eyes from seeing me.
I’ll be inexplicably delusional. Self-harm comes next or at least it wants to come next. I’ll get an itchy feeling on my arm that makes me want to take my nails and dig whatever is crawling inside my body, but I can’t. Doing so would put me in the red-zone, and another week in a crisis unit is something I want to avoid.