“Is this Trevor?”

“This is the pharmacy, we just got your new prescription for Wellbutrin faxed to us.”

“Would you like us to add it to your bubble pack, or just put it in a vial?”

“A vial? Okay that’s what I thought. Thank you, have a good day.”

I got up at 9:52 for an appointment at 10 this morning. A video call with my psychiatrist. I briefly considered cancelling the appointment yesterday, and wanted to sleep through it today. But I set up my laptop and joined the meeting. My microphone didn’t work. Of course. I ended up talking on my cell phone while still on video. And against my worse judgement, I told the truth about my situation.

I admitted to her that I have run aground. And I have been reluctantly admitting to myself that I am a shipwreck.

Shipwrecked. Again. On one of those familiar strange, dark islands. The kind that like to suck me in, and make it hard to leave. The thing about being shipwrecked is that it is too familiar. I have a habit of falling in love with the things that bring me down. And when I look in the mirror, I know that I am falling in love again. In love with my illness. Losing interest in my wellness. And with time, I grow colder. The lighter parts of me grow harder to reach as they decline in value. I find dark places, and make myself comfortable there.

I have been growing anxious about discussing my mental health. My illness warns me against it. Like it’s a personal secret that I can’t let out of the bag. With anxiety comes the urge to flee. To escape into another headspace. I dive into deep sadness or loneliness, where self harm thoughts murmur on how they might be of assistance.

Sometimes I pause. I stop the battle in my mind. To wonder why I am still here. I weigh the pros and cons of living. To end my life is to end my mind. To end my life is to cut my story short. A story filled with great things. A past, a present, and also a future. I want to see people grow. I want to feel warm breezes and swim in cool water. Life means supporting others, drinking coffee, talking sports…and the show must go on.

After meeting my psychiatrist, I have decided to start a new antidepressant (Wellbutrin), as well as get my lithium levels checked again. It’s been over a year since I last had bloodwork done. Well past the recommended six month period between tests. Part of me feels as if I am betraying myself, while other parts are congratulating me for taking steps. Taking steps to get that ship repaired, and back out to sea.

Do I want to float back out to sea?

I’m not completely sure.

But it’s the path I choose.

I owe it to myself.