Something that strikes me as pretty funny now is that when I was a kid, other kids were always asking if I’d forgotten to take my meds that morning. I wasn’t on any kind of meds; it was a sick burn because I was … wont to behave a little freakishly. It’s funny now because I’m nearly 30 and I’m still asked if I forgot to take my meds this morning! But these days it’s not a burn, it’s because my face has gone grey around lunchtime. And the answer then is yes, yes I did forget to take my morning cocktail of actual psych meds that I actually have to take. Forgetting my meds doesn’t make me behave like a kooky child, it makes me behave like a limp adult—the experience is somewhere between a bad trip and a hangover. Uh, it did something weird to my feelings, when kids used to ask me stuff like that. I never knew how to respond. I got over it by giving in to it: yes, I will be the crazy one. Sealed my fate, I guess.

I didn’t want to start medicating. I had the typical worry that it would damage my creativity, or remove my personality or whatever. It seemed like bad vibes to willingly dull my experience of existing. But not long before my 21st birthday, I was doing a lot of damage to myself (like physically ☹), getting drunk at 10 am most days, and the only thing on my pantry shelf was a jar of Marshmallow Fluff with one spoonful dug out of it (from when I discovered I didn’t like it). Existing was hurting me real bad I guess. So I gathered up my arse and my courage and did the responsible thing: emailed my parents (I am a businesswoman).