"I’m on Valium; Everything’s okay."

It’s been a running joke for me the last few months, how I would just love for my doctor to prescribe me Valium and make everything okay. I made light of it because I know that there is often a stigma attached to people relieving their stress, anxiety and depression with medication. I, however, have been doing so since my early twenties. My mother only just realized that I take anti-depressants and anxiety medication. She often asks why and if she contributed to the reason, but that’s neither here nor there at this point, so I simply tell her “no.”

And I can’t really blame any one person or thing unless it’s myself and my inability to properly express myself and not fear the consequences and repercussions. I over-compensate. I bend over backwards to make sure everyone else is happy and I rarely, if ever ask for help.

So, I took myself to the doctor last week and told him, without too much detail, the current height of my stress level. He recommended Ativan, but I insisted on Valium because I know better than anyone that I am, indeed, at that point.

He gave it to me. At first, it felt like I was taking a placebo. I wanted it to work and I wanted it to work fast. Turns out I had to adjust my dosage just a little and then…eureka.

I don’t want to depend on a pill to “deal,” but during a particularly tough time today, I popped one. It was either that or break down crying and have to leave my job because I was such a wreck.

But…I prefer this to my other self, where I scream and hit and cry and beg and beg for my voice to be heard to no avail. Right now, I’m still not being heard, I’m still being misunderstood, but…I kinda don’t give a fuck.

That in and of itself seems pretty harsh and cold, but I can’t continue being the only one who cares, the only one who feels anything, the only one who’s hurt. So, if it takes me having to pop a “happy” pill now and again to keep myself from saying or doing something I shouldn’t then, so be it.

I don’t care that my husband is not talking to me. I don’t care that when he does talk to me it’s with anger and resentment in his voice. I don’t care that he hasn’t fucked me and probably won’t anytime soon. I just don’t fucking care.

The mind boggling thing, though, is that if he has this massive misperception of me, if he thinks me to be this horrible person who doesn’t have his and our family’s best interest at heart, why the hell is he still here? Why is wasting his time and mine?

I am perfectly self-sufficient. I left home at 18 and never, ever looked back… well, except that one time in ’06, lol. Still. I can take care of me and mine. But, I don’t go around screaming this to him. I need him, absolutely, but in totally different ways than he realizes.

I need him to know and understand me. I need him to see and hear me. It’s been five years, why has this not happened yet? Or am I just too naïve to see and accept that it never will?


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