It’s been six or seven years since clinicians started to diagnose and ply me with pharmaceuticals. They ignored you and your kind, Adderall, it wasn’t me who declined to invite any Stimulants to the party. I assure you, even given your inherent indefatigable propensity, you would have been exhausted years ago. You didn’t miss anything, are you friends with the Tricyclics, the SSRIs, the SNRIs, the Benzodiazepines, the Mood Stabilizers, the Antipsychotics? All of the off label families who aren’t cool enough to be named? Well, I’m sure you’ve seen them elsewhere. But if you require an apology to treat me right, you’ve got it – I’m sorry it took so long, and if your feelings were hurt at the perception that you were ignored, it was not my intention.
You’re a bit of a tease. You’re nice enough to start with, very attentive, pleasant, even the kids enjoy your company. You really helped me bang out cases, get caught up on correspondence, manage the household, get some writing done. You even picked up some pounds and tossed them for me, I thought you were so kind, such a friend.
But then, what happens? Do you tire of me that quickly? You give me a few good hours and then send me into a tail spin? Taunting me, goading me into unqualified rages? Leaving me bleeding over nothing? Giving me my first-ever dissociative experiences? And you fucking called Borderline???? We broke up, she had moved on, you may have not been part of the mix at the time, but seriously, you don’t call someone’s ex and invite them into me without getting some fucking background. Have some grace.
We’ve weakened you, the good doctor and I. He has complete confidence in your qualifications, and has deduced that since you are sometimes nice to me that you must like me at least a bit. And that you could warm up to me. I’m not so sure. That wouldn’t fit with the pattern. Both your race and my own reject me after a while. Sometimes very quickly, sometimes it drags out. Sometimes I know it’s coming, sometimes I’m floored. Sometimes I know why, sometimes it’s an enigma. Sometimes it’s mutual, sometimes I just really want the other to disappear. And sometimes I’m shattered.
There’s got to be some way to make it work. If it doesn’t, it is strictly on you. For my part, I’m trying. But if you pull that bullshit again, with the suicide chanting, I’ll, I don’t know…shit, not much I can do except toss you. But what do you care?
Just don’t fuck with me. Before you came I felt ok, just disorganized and anxious. Now I feel like a worthless piece of shrapnel. Borderline won’t leave now either, she’s a mess, disgraced, with no regard for order, her vulgar accessories occupy every available ounce of space. She’s creating almost as much trouble for my friends as she is for me. You invited her and now you’ve got to work out something with her, I have to be able to breathe.
I’ll see you in the morning. Your new bottle says you’re a bit toned down, a little slower. If you’re full of shit, please own up to it quickly. I don’t have time for this. No offense, but if I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be for you. And in case you’re more of a visual communicator – this is how you leave me at the end of the day: