My medication numbs me a little. I don’t feel the highest highs and I don’t feel the lowest lows. It keeps me at a fairly steady level. I’m a placid person who still has genuine empathy and concern for my loved ones. That means I don’t stress too hard over small things or even some bigger issues. There is always the exception, but as a rule I remain pretty chilled. Very little shocks me or really screws with my feelings. I’m not sure if it’s the medication that makes me more docile or if this is simply the way I’m wired. I’m very unconfrontational and tend to avoid disputes. I don’t lose my temper, and I don’t let small stuff faze me.
I sometimes think that I’m too easygoing. I should probably have more fight in me and not let small slights slide so readily. It would be interesting — and perhaps a little unsettling — to see the real Dave that hides behind meds and quiet routines. Over the years I’ve been able to apply a bit of basic psychology to defuse people looking for trouble. I’m a fairly large person and I rarely leave the house, so confrontations are unlikely, but I can’t help wondering how I’d actually react if someone ever threatened my family.
I take Seroquel, a very strong antipsychotic, and I’m on a fairly massive dose. People on the streets even call it “baby heroin,” and I can see why. It zones me out completely — I’m neither fully asleep nor fully awake. I exist in a calm, numbed contentment, and the last thing I want to face is someone who’s hostile. After all, I’m a junkie, and my priority is keeping that fragile peace.
I don’t get road rage, I don’t fight or even have heated arguments with my family, and I am very forgiving. Even when I drink, my demeanor doesn’t change — I may slur my words a little, but alcohol definitely doesn’t alter who I am at my core. I’m still Dave. I have never been in a physical fight in my life; maybe there was some pushing and shoving back in my school days, but for the most part I rely on conversation and reason to get myself out of difficult situations. Perhaps I’m this way because of the pot smoking I did during the years when I was in active addiction — maybe it changed my brain in some lasting way. It was practically impossible for me to get into a fight when I was high.
I recently lost two of my grandparents whom I loved dearly. I didn’t shed a tear, and that has left me wondering what is wrong with me. Everyone else around me seemed to be crying or feeling visibly sad, yet I felt an absence of emotion. This doesn’t feel like normal behavior, especially given how close we were and all the wonderful things they did for me. What I came to understand is that I was grappling with the reality that they were no longer my Nan and Pa in the way I had always known them. They had become shells—empty, familiar forms—and the vibrant, caring people I remember have moved on to a better place. Accepting that loss and that transformation is one of the unavoidable processes of life.