I medicate, therefore I am.

Yesterday, I quit using Effexor. It pretty much was killing me. The side-effects were horrible: I basically had the entire list of side-effects. Nausea, confusion, tachycardia, dry mouth, etc. It even made me suicidal, so switching was definitely the correct choice. I haven't really talked about that last bit because I'm not too thrilled about disclosing it, but I figure, I've been open about everything so far, so. There. Plus, I don't want to have to explain to any visitors why my mother freaks out if I spend more than seven minutes in the bathroom.

Sometimes I wonder if the depression is over and I'm stuck in this limbo of catatonia. Quite frankly, I don't really care about anything. People have to arse me out of the house, and usually, they're not successful (ask Damian). At least I'm eating on a regular basis now. I'm not really getting good sleep because I have confusing dreams and such.

The psychiatrist has asked me to keep a diary, jotting down all the times I have negative thoughts and such. She also switched my medication, and I will start Celexa tomorrow. I don't want to take any pills, but apparently, my case is serious enough to require psychotherapy and medication. To be honest, I might have had low-level depression since last year, coming and going, but it never got so bad as now. This major depressive episode has lasted more than a month so it's serious.

She also asked me to buy a book called Feeling Good. Oh Lord. I'm not too happy about reading self-help, but, it seems I have no other choice. As long as it helps me get out of this hole and take me to the way I was, we're fine.

We still haven't put up the tree: mom says that this Christmas is not worth celebrating. I don't know. I wake up every morning, hoping that I will be back to my old self. But I'm still this person that doesn't really feel anything. I'm a shell of my former self. A shadow.

My biggest regret is not having addressed the problem sooner. I had started seeing the signs of depression in September and I'd made an appointment with the psychologist. I never went. Now, it's all over the edge and I wonder all the time: if I'd gone then, would I be this way? I've given so many people so much suffering. Would this have been avoided? There's no way to know. The psychiatrist says that back then I wasn't ready to address the problem and that I am now. Whatever. I just wish I could turn back time and fix so many things, but I can't.