I am an intelligent human and my memory typically serves me all too well. I’m fastidious and detail oriented, as evidenced by the two, large white boards, one at work and one in my room, that chronicle my to-dos, trending thoughts, and schedules. Despite all this, I struggle to remember to take my daily medication.
I’ve tried setting alarms. I’ve tried carrying my medications everywhere I go. I’ve tried placing the bottles in my closet so that I have to look at them when I get dressed. I still manage to forget at an alarming rate, forcing myself to turn around on my way to work or take my medication hours late.
Why can’t I remember my medicine? My most recent theory is that I’m passive aggressively, subconsciously protesting my drug dependence. For I depend on these medications: without them, my life was harder, unhappier, less tenable. So despite the fact that their side effects can include weight gain and thyroid and kidney problems, to name a few, I take my three pills every day. Why is it called addiction when it’s a cigarette and medication when it comes from an orange hued bottle? I feel like I’m doing something intrinsically harmful to my body for the sake of my mind. There’s a profound disconnect between the person I want to be and the person who needs these medications, and, of course, there’s not.
No comments:
Post a Comment