I've not been taking my tablets. There, I've said it. It happens every now and then when I like to try and convince myself that, even though I haven't been through years of medical training, I of course know best.
Usually the tablet downtime is a bloody nightmare where I struggle to keep my head above the water line until I realise I'm being a dick and reluctantly start pumping my body full of chemicals again. It's usually around the time I start crying when I see old people because I'm imagining them home alone shivering whilst trying to count their meagre pensions. Ridiculous right?
This time around has been an eye opener for all the wrong reasons. I feel like my synapses have woken up and my brain is finally firing on all cylinders – ideas for book two and plots and schemes for new characters, books, screenplays etc are whizzing around in my brain and getting jotted down in my little magical Moleskine. Normally when I'm medicated up to my eyeballs trying to think of new ideas is like trying to fold gravy whilst blindfolded and wearing oven gloves.
There's good reasons why my doctors have put me on the cocktail of tablets I'm on and so surely I shouldn't be ignoring their advice and doing my own thing however the very thought of spending the next 40 years folding gravy wearing oven gloves whilst trying to carve out a writing career is enough to make me consider hanging up my laptop and resigning myself to being a one book wonder.
I know being off all the pills is a dangerous game, sure I might have ideas whizzing about like bastards inside my brain but I am also sleeping as often as I can when I'm not stuffing my face and that's not actually as much fun as it sounds in all honesty. Especially when you can see your arse expanding at a rate of knots…
I've been pondering the past few days if I could perhaps start thinking about coming off the anti-depressants that I've been on for the past eleven years. Especially now they've been joined by the anti wobble mood stabilisers from the shrink. In an ideal world I'd be medicated to soothe the mental but my little neurons and all the other gunk that makes up my brain would still be functioning without feeling like they're wrapped in cotton wool. Actually scratch that, in an ideal world I would be a size twelve and so goddamned sorted that the merest suggestion of medication would be deflected by my very awesomeness. Sadly though I am lumbered with mental health issues and it all comes down to learning to deal with them on a daily basis.
I think the place to start is talking to my doctors. Thankfully having a medical history akin to War and Peace and probably being one of their most regular customers I know I can go in there and without embarrassment own up to being the sort of cockend who just stops taking her medication.