So, here I sit again, almost ready for work. My meds are right there by my breakfast.
I will take them. I will always take them.
When I was relapsing and afraid and feeling unsteady it was so easy to take them. One little pill and the confusion and panic melts away.
But I’ve been doing so well. I’ve been stronger and looking forward to more and trying more. I try to fight my sneaky brian that says… “No, it used to be the meds but now it is just the sheer power of your mind that has kept you going.”
Most likely not the case. But it’s a conversation I have with myself every morning it seems. I will take these meds. I have too much at stake. I have my job, I have my family, I have my own place. I have too much to loose. But these pills just seem to get me down a bit. A constant reminder that I’m not well.
But, they work. I know they work. I’m glad and grateful they work. I wouldn’t be me and typing here if they didn’t.
I didn’t expect it to be so hard at times to maintain my motivation. One would think that taking meds would get easier when we got better, not harder.