I have been prescribed some Temazepam, to help me sleep.
It sits, alongside all the other well-intended treatment, in my kitchen cupboard, whilst I toss, and turn, and wait for the panic to wear itself out–
I have never been very good with medication.
I don’t trust that it will do what it’s supposed to do and I’m not very good at giving up control. I am particularly cautious with anything that threatens to change my mind – or alter my mood – or moderate my feelings -
Nope, I’d rather toss– and turn – and sweat through the anxiety because, however uncomfortable that feels, it is, at least, more comfortable then letting go –
Or giving in –
Or accepting help.
Which I don’t do well.
So, instead, I struggle through – because I can get there on my own, thank you very much – and I remain adamant that I will find the cure. By my self. I grin and bear it – because it’s better the devil you know – and I maintain a precise control of the workings of my mind – which belongs to me.
I have stayed away from psychiatric drugs (with the added fear of weight gain); snubbed the support of nicotine patches (which might be deceptive); resisted the name of the antipsychotics (who, me?); got far too anxious even considering anti-anxiety meds (which defeats the purpose); and remain a bit wary of anything sleep related (because I might not wake up)…
It would be interesting to back track and see what would have happened if I’d said yes – instead of no.
There’s no disputing that free choice is essential – only I couldn’t guarantee that my choice has been freely made; because, really, my cupboard full of medicine is not an advertisement for psychiatric drugs or chemically coated cures, but a metaphor for how difficult it is to –
Let go of the control –
And commit to something different –
And accept a little help.