Medicating Away the Otherness

I’ve decided to write a blog post for the first time in months simply as an act of defiance in a world that often seems over-run with Aritificial Intelligence. My Human Intelligence, I’ve egotistically decided, is needed in this moment to share stories that no AI can come up with because no AI has lived them.

Then there’s the problem of what to write about. I’ve composed the beginnings of hundreds of blog posts in my head over the past four years. That’s the time that I’ve spent in grad school, the time that has stolen away my capacity to write for fun and instead turned my computer desk into some sort of prison that I immediately associate with stress, boredom, aggravation, and, often times, intense emotional overwhelm. Then I decided that this blog post needs to be exactly that: the tenacity to get through, and the help I’ve needed along the way.

I’m not worried about sharing the fact that I started taking medication in my first year of grad school. I’ve probably written about that before. I don’t think twice now before popping those little red pills in the morning, but at the time, it was a massive decision that threatened the very foundation I had built for myself. I had the mindset that prevents so many from seeking the help that they need: I shouldn’t need this help. I should be strong enough. This is unnatural. Maybe I just need some more herbal supplements or some meditation.

I know meditation helps. I know that certain herbal supplements have massive benefits for the body. But I also know that medication, at times the very bane of my existence with its side effects and long periods before efficacy kicks in (if it kicks in at all – if it doesn’t, it’s back to square one and another 2 months trying to figure out if something else will work for you), has helped me move forward. I had plateaued in my journey. I was getting to the age where chasing new and next was getting repetitive, the dopamine from doing so was wearing off and coming in smaller and smaller doses, and the existential ache was starting to roar. Previously, it had been a quiet little whisper that I was able to drown out with the loud bass of long plane flights, the guitar riffs of brand new places, and the playful melodies of new jobs and new friends.

That was a lot of analogy. But because this is Human Intelligence time, I’m not going to even go back and edit it. I’m just going to post it. But let me finish my point.

So these little pills have helped and hurt me, sometimes at the same time. But I think I’ve learned more about myself simply through the process of deciding to take medication, and figuring out which medications work and which don’t, than through the actual chemically-altered brainspace that these medications are supposedly inducing. I would never have had the realization that I’ve been depressed, albeit at a low-grade, for most of my life. I would never have realized fully what it’s like to not be depressed, the beauty in not overthinking every situation, not analyzing other people’s facial expressions with the hope of (oh this is gut-wrenching) perfectly aligning my personality in that moment to make them as comfortable as possible, not constantly being distracted by everything I’m not doing to the point of not even knowing or experiencing what I am doing. That’s a big win: the realization that depression does not have to be a permanent state of existence. It’s still around, and it still visits regularly, but it comes for meals and tea, not as an unwanted roommate.

I’ve also learned that I probably would never have made it through grad school (I’m not even through and could be jinxing it, hoping that’s not the case but you never know) without medication. That it has taken chemically altering my innate neurological environment to push, fight, and drag my way through the many ins and outs of a PhD program. I’m not saying this makes me weak or a failure, but I am recognizing this as a sign that I am not one of the ones that thrives in an academic environment or in the loose structure of a doctoral program. The reality is that neurodivergent individuals have a much harder go of it in these structures, because regardless of what the disability office says, or what the dean advocates for, many of us are not included or welcomed. The very symptoms of our various neurodivergences lead colleagues and advisors to “other” us, and, like I just read in Brené Brown’s most recent book, this leaves us horribly screwed. “Our strong ground is made up of two elements,” she writes. “1) Our own footing, including our values, a clear sense of our contribution, our curiosity, and our humility; 2) Our connection to another person or group of people who are also grounded.” The book is called Strong Ground, and I won’t give away the entire premise here, but it’s pretty clear that we aren’t going to do well in a place of work if we aren’t connected with at least a few of our colleagues.

So I have been medicating away my “otherness” in the hopes of being just okay enough to finish this thing. I am okay with that, right now. But I really do want to find a place, an existence, where I don’t need to medicate away some of the things that make me, me. Some of the pieces that have quieted with medication are ones that I would prefer to keep quiet. And some of things I miss and cherish and love about myself but because they are not well accepted by my family, or by general society, it’s really painful for me to love them out loud and it’s easier to hide them when medicated.

So hopefully this was somewhat insightful. If it wasn’t, just know that a human being wrote it. A human being who has at least 18 pairs of cowboy boots and plans to line dance in every single one of them.