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When I feel like this, I put one finger to my wrist and feel the vein beat.

I thought that taking the pills would stop me from feeling like this again. How foolish of me. The pills consist of an antipsychotic and a mood stabilizer. I don’t get antidepressants; they would make me manic, my psychiatrist said.

Hold. Rewind. I haven’t told you yet, have I, my good invisible wordpress audience?

Around three weeks ago, I started having panic attacks. It was like drowning, except when you’re drowning, people can help. In this case, when people come close to you, you feel like screaming. You just. Can’t. Breathe.

Around that time, someone asked Kent to write a story about anxiety disorder, but he passed on the request to me because he thought I could help. I came up with this short piece, based on my own little episode not a week before.

supermarket panic

Anyway, when I started to have around three panic attacks a week and stopped being able to even come to class, I decided that it was time to come and meet my psychologist again.

She told me I had bipolar disorder.

Yes, apparently my high, “I’m so happy I might explode, I could do anything, I make all the unrealistic plans I never see through” phases in my life are manic phases. Then I had major depressive phases. She referred me to a psychiatrist, I got prescription drugs, and here I am.

You know how people like to say, “Take a chill pill,” or “Have you taken your meds yet?” Or how in cheap soap operas an unstable character would be shown to have empty antipsychotic pill bottles? Yeah, guys. Shit just got real for me.

The medicines worked. For a while. I slept well; Seroquel hits me hard like a tranq dart. The panic attacks stopped.

Then this. I don’t know if it’s partly because of the grim outlook I have post-DELF or just me being at the bottom of the turning wheel again and it will pass, but it feels like having my lungs caught in a vice all day long. But as I said, none of the pills were antidepressants. It’s alright. It’s part of being human anyway, feeling things. I can still function, mostly.

Funny how apprehensive I was when medication was first mentioned, because now if given the option, I would run to it very easily. I have all the makings of a drug addict. My problem is in the mind, Chloe says. But then, what is the mind if not just some synapses firing, some hormones and chemicals mixing? The body is the mind, and both is not well. I have so much unspoken fear about what my mind may tell me to do to my body, what it already does except I do not listen.

What does it say about me that I feel safer confiding all this to the faceless unknown of the internet rather than to her constant presence?