I’d hoped to maybe even read the book my sister reluctantly let me borrow.
But no. I don’t think I’ll be getting any of that done, no matter how hard I try.
It’s not because I don’t have the time in my schedule to squeeze it in somewhere. It’s that, mentally, I don’t think I would now be capable of doing anything other than feeling sorry for myself while coming to terms with my new reality, and the unknown of it all.
We have three shows in New York City over the next week, and my schedule looks a little something like this: show tonight, four radio interviews back to back first thing in the morning tomorrow, some charity event that Akira has invited me to as her plus one later tomorrow night, followed by two more shows.
Josie might let me squeeze a nap somewhere in between it all, but knowing her, she probably thinks sleep is for the weak—something we should all just do when we’re dead.
I don’t know how to tell her that some days my body feels like it’s well and truly on that path. Especially if I don’t listen to it and rest when it demands that I do.
Akira has been watching me cautiously since I lied and told her I was fine.
She lingers like she wants to say something else, but then just smiles and heads out for her soundcheck, leaving me alone, with too much silence.
The second the door clicks shut, I pull out my phone.
I Google every medication option we talked about—again. Searching for side effects, worst-case scenarios, anything that’ll convince me I’m not making a huge mistake.
The results load slow enough that my brain fills the silence with the conversation I keep replaying in my head.
Doctor Minton had been patient, walking me through each option. By the time we hung up, I felt we’d made the right call. Not a good one. Not something I’m excited about. Just... the best of a bad bunch.
But sitting here now, the quiet pressing in around me, I second-guess it.
I go through every side effect again.
Not great. But better than most.
The purpose? To prevent another relapse.
Dosage? More often than I want.
Pain? Judging by the pictures I find…yeah. It’s going to hurt.
I keep glancing at the door like someone might walk in, see the look on my face, and ask if I’m okay.
If they did, I might tell them everything.
Instead, it’s just me, falling deeper into the darkness of my own mind.
I find support groups online—anonymous, of course—and scroll through posts from people who chose not to medicate.
They talk about diet. Fitness. Healing naturally.
But I already do all of that.
And I still ended up here.
Six months. That’s what I give myself.
Six months on this medication I can barely pronounce. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.
I can survive six months of injections.
"It’s all trial and error," someone wrote in one of the forums. They’re right. It’s like anything else.
Everybody is different. Every body reacts in its own way.
