...or so the phrase, er, doesn't go.
It was exactly a year ago today that I ran out of the three months worth of prescription Ativan I'd pretty much become addicted to and had knocked back over the course of six days. This bought me out of the practically catatonic state I’d been in and my newfound sobriety totally freaked me out. So I tried to kill myself.
(Interestingly I found a site featuring guidelines on the use of Ativan. In the “warnings” section it states that Ativan should not be administered to patients displaying the characteristics of a severe depression. I’m not trying to shy away from taking responsibility for the things I did, but I can’t say that it doesn’t make me a little bit angry that I was ever given that drug.)
I've talked about it a lot before here, so I won't labour the point any more than I have to. Just suffice it to say that, 365 days later, I am in a very different place. But the best thing is that I don't feel either really ecstatically happy or desperately un-happy. I feel calm. I've come to believe that a pervading sense of calm is a highly virtuous emotion.
Today, especially, feels like a good day to live.
No comments:
Post a Comment