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This is the first I have really written in a while. I have basically had a nervous breakdown and have spent the better part of a month trying to recover myself. Trying to find myself amongst the panic and the tears. Trying to make it through the nausea and the disconnection. Trying to survive from one minute to the next while convincing myself to live another day. The medication was a savior and another reason to panic. Days ran on as I slept and felt nauseous. I felt as if I was riding a ferris wheel that kept going faster and faster with no end in site. Holding on, I rode the waves of dizziness and nausea. “It will get worse before it gets better” they said. I kept repeating that to myself like a mantra until one day it did. It got better. I stopped crying. The ferris wheel stopped and I got off. Now I just have to find the exit for this crazy amusement park and get back to the white sand and the blue water of the beach.

I don’t know which is better the deep despair of the dark days of depression and anxiety or the mind numbing days of medication. Through the despair I was able to write. Through the tears and panic I was able to put my story down on paper. Releasing some of the terror. But now, now my mind is a blank. I no longer cry at commercials but I no longer cry at sad movies either. The medication reached a hand down the rabbit hole and pulled me up but in the process I think I left a few things behind. I feel as if I have left a part of my creative soul there in the deep recesses of the dark.

There is a link between creativity and madness, all the best writers have been a little mad but does that mean I must be mad to write? If I cure my madness do I then lose my soul? Do I embrace my madness and live out my life bound to my house writing, fearing the outside world and all who live in it? Do I create my own little world of madness or do I embrace the world and learn once again how to exist in it hoping to find my soul in the process? For now, I choose the cure.

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