Clarity

If you don't know something of the routine fuzziness of my mind, then you may not really understand the remarkable clarity that comes with stability. I trip and falter constantly still, but that clarity of mind usually remains.

I was just sitting here now, folding laundry after a rough morning, realizing how clear my mind is. I was so used to living in clutter and fog that I wasn't aware it was unusual. I can think now. It's like having a stuffed nose every day and then suddenly being able to take in a long draught without the squish-squelch you've grown accustomed to. It's like having a headache everyday, and then you discover acetaminophen.

I can think now. It's like having a headache everyday, and then you discover acetaminophen.

It's the meds, I know. And that's fine. Sometimes, medication is appropriate. It took a long time, years, to get to that point -- to say, yes, psychiatric medication is good. It took multiple counselors, close friends, and even then, serious danger before I would take a prescription. Some fears were reasonable -- partial memories of zombie-ish effects of psychiatry on others, for one; the danger to an unborn or nursing baby, for another -- and some weren't.

There is uncertainty. Perhaps, my diagnosis will change in the future. Perhaps, I should be treated for something else, or maybe, I need no treatment at all. (I know not to trust that last thought, though. It goes in the same box as maybe, I can fly.) Perhaps, maybe, I don't know. And that's ok. The doctors are doing their best with me. My counselors are doing their best. And I am doing the best I can with the info I have right now.

And right now, things are looking pretty good.