OK, so I started on medication about a month ago because my mind was on its way out the door. I'm "normal" now, but ... not so normal. Weird things are happening. My priorities have changed completely.
For one thing, I've turned into Susie Homemaker. Seriously. I'm vacuuming twice a week, changing the sheets on the bed twice a week (the cats sleep with us and are serious shedders), and finding great delight in planning and preparing meals. Tonight I rearranged our living room and wondered if it was "okay" to rearrange a room in a certain way just to make everything look new and different--and not because the rearrangement makes better use of the space (because it definitely doesn't).
We had company for four days, and I spent a huge chunk of that time cooking, cleaning, and planning activities. And I enjoyed it. I liked being a servant. I even refused help. I've heard women do that all the time in the kitchen, but I always thought they were just being polite. But I didn't want help. I seriously wanted my guests to simply relax and not have a care in the world.
Something is very wrong. I got off medication last time because it had this same effect. It's wonderful not to be severely depressed, but at the same time ... I miss the passion that came with writing and piano. I've had no desire whatsoever to practice Bach, and I'm having to force myself to sit down every morning and write. Once I start writing, I'm fine and focused (and am actually coming up many more interesting ideas than I ever did when depressed). But before I start, my mind keeps wandering to domestic things ... "What color should I paint this room? I sure would love to landscape the yard using lots of rocks. Oh, my. The ceiling fans and light fixtures are filthy. Might as well clean 'em now." Next thing I know, I've wasted a half-hour and still haven't started writing.
I used to crave writing and music. They used to quench a certain thirst, or come close to it. Now I just don't feel thirsty anymore.
It's scary. I'm not being facetious. This really is creepy. I feel great, I'm running and loving it, I'm overcome with adoration for the Hubster, and I'm having guilty thoughts of ... home improvements. And decorating. And having people over for dinner. And making things match.
This is not me. This is weird, wifey, medicated me. But at the same time, it does feel good not to be depressed. I just don't know about this non-depressed person I'm becoming. It's like I'm sitting in a really comfortable chair ... in a furniture store. The feeling is great, but it's also borrowed. It's not mine to keep. I feel ambivalent about keeping it anyway.
But then I wonder ... am I just becoming a normal, well-adjusted person--instead of my delightfully inventive, unpredictable, overly dramatic, angst-ridden, brilliant artist-self? Was the brilliance just an imagined thing anyway?
I'm going to go play George. Once I force myself to start practicing, I'll usually get caught up in it and practice for as long as I need to. It's the motivation--usually not a problem--that's been absent lately.
Drugs are so strange.