Dylan, part II

. . .

So my father has been on anti-depressants for decades. In some respects I wish that he never told me; it’s a rather tedious piece of information that lies, dormant most of the time, somewhere in the attic of my brain. But it’s always there. It’s awakened whenever someone at work asks why I’m not doing more with my abilities. Or when I think about why I struggle with relationships. Or when I am conscious of the fact that I prefer, most of the time, to be alone rather than with others (though my partner is the exception to that). Or when I think about opportunities in my life that I have let go by the wayside without having a legitimate explanation for doing so.

Anyways, the long and the short of it is, I have no doubt that if I were to go see a psychiatrist (I’ve never been to therapy, nor will I ever go) that I would be prescribed some sort of anti-depressant medication. But the thought of taking medication that would alter the way that my brain functions scares me infinitely many more times than having to deal with the genetic hand that I was dealt.

As a post-script, I must add that I believe anti-depressants to be necessary for some people. I certainly do not mean to diminish any positive effects that are derived from them. And I certainly can’t imagine how much different my father’s (and my own) life would have been if not for medication.

nothing left to do but SMILE, SMILE, SMILE . . .