I stopped taking my meds. I know in a sense that seems counterproductive, but I had to get off. I realized my meds weren’t a patch for my depression but for where I am in life. I suddenly realized that medication made me complacent to the terrible things in my life. I suddenly became okay with being overweight, hating my job and surrounding myself with people who no longer benefitted me. I was stuck. I was numb to my own faults. I knew that once I stopped believing in my dreams that a part of me was dead. I couldn’t let that go. I wasn’t going to allow myself to stop dreaming. So, I did it. I ignored my follow up appointment. I’ve ignored that small bottle that somehow has shoveled its way from the center to the mere dark corner of my pantry. It’s been almost a month since I have gone cold turkey from 50mg of suppressant pills. I started to cry again, which I felt I couldn’t ever do. There’s something really refreshing about a good cry or about feeling very deeply. Maybe the problem wasn’t feeling too much at once but rather not understanding why I feel. I am an empath. I embrace all emotions even the ones that don’t belong to me.