“Unmedicated, dedicated, ready to live” comes from an army phrase I picked up from my fiance who’s an Army veteran. The original phrase is “medicated, dedicated, ready to kill!”
Well, a lot of soldiers in the army have mental illness and are medicated for it. Thus, “medicated, dedicated, ready to kill.”
Almost 25% of Army soldiers have a mental disorder of some kind. For instance, soldiers are five times more likely to have major depression compared to civilians.
Unmedicated, Dictated, and Ready to Live!
I ran out of half of my medication. My therapist and psychologist are from my graduate school, I was kicked out of the program because my mental illnesses became inhabitable. Ultimately I didn’t have the resources I needed to reach their GPA requirement. Anything below 3.0 is grounds for dismissal from my program.
Presently, I don’t have access to the medical assistance I need to function on a day to day basis. I’ve moved and applied for the state health insurance. State health insurance is for those people for poor people like me. Still, every day is a day without regulatory medication that I need to live, live in a functioning manner.
So I have to wait for the resources to process while seeking pockets of productivity.
There is no rest of the anxious, it preys on the hopelessness of energy past.
I’m waiting for the health care application to be processed so that I can start again. Work, School, no. I have to rest. Find my pockets of productivity.
A restoration of movement, of access to the able-bodied 24-year-old I’m supposed to be.
I just want to work!
Unmedicated in purgatory.
I’m saturated with anhedonia. I’ve been bargaining with myself about the name of it all. Pain comes with a name tag. I have emotions lingering on the edges of my sight. I just can’t quite see them. I have anhedonia at the moment.
I feel calm and without swirls of paralyzing realities.
But I can’t reach them. I can reach depression intermittently but there it wants to stay.
The Anhedonic Anxiety
When it all comes back it wouldn’t be within my binary reality, bleak intoxicating despair.
In between spaces of sanity lies a pit in my heart, a black stone stays on my chest. Daring me to move it.
Think “Spirited Away”, there was a gooey tar monster. I just can’t seem to step on it.
Its weight is felt by a constricted frame of being.
This anhedonia from the trauma, from being debilitated, able-bodied, to nothing.
A rolling pin nestled between my rib cage. It skips to bounce and banter while withholding, h o l d i ng offering my life.
My chest has a stone rolling pin that bounces and turns reveling in the space between the ribs.
Skipping scuttling across my control, what control?
My lungs conspire to give up, to play this game where my body is weaponized against me.
Weaponized within, not to protect.
To function, my lungs will fill until they can’t. This struggle to live, to the surface, is unavoidable.
I will not be dismantled by mental illnesses. There are too many pieces.
Thanks for ready Scattered Bits & Pieces from my Life at Square One!
Please leave comments below, I would love to hear from you.
Johari, Life Square One