Sorry I’m Not Fun Anymore

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that I can’t drink with you because I’m barely stable and one wrong move could send me spiraling into crushing depression.

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that I don’t stay out late, because anything less than seven hours of sleep is guaranteed to trigger depression next day—if something else hasn’t already. 

Sorry that I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that I feel super uncomfortable at bars. Sorry that a seltzer water with lime still reminds me that I’m too messed up to join everyone else in something that they wouldn’t even think twice about doing. 

Sorry that I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that I made you miss out on that concert, that trip, that perfect life you thought we had. Sorry I didn’t want to take drugs with you because my own head is scary enough at times. Sorry that I couldn’t watch scary movies because I already had plenty of my own fuel for nightmares (and my doctors told me not to). You told me I ruined everything for everyone and I believed you. 

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that months of treatment and hospitals was inconvenient for you and that my recovery is not something you wanted to be a part of. I would chose almost anything over multiple doctors’ appointments every week– over listing the 12 psychiatric meds that didn’t even put a dent in my depression–over debating with multiple specialists if I’m on the bipolar spectrum and going home crying because maybe I’ve been being treated for the completely wrong illness for the past eight years of my life. I still don’t know.

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that any extra money I would love to spend on going to shows with you is being consumed by co-pays and prescriptions, on lab work, on things insurance may/may not cover, on homeopathic remedies and vitamin supplements because the pills I’m on bring on extreme physical fatigue regardless of how much caffeine I consume. At least the new pills are supposed to be stabilizing me? Right? 

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that when I show up late for work it’s not because of traffic—you knew that already. It’s because in the middle of taking my morning pills with a glass of cold water I have to fight my reflection in the mirror each morning and tell her she IS valuable and she IS worthy of love, and convince her to take a shower, get dressed and go outside.

Sorry I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that it’s hard for me to make plans because recovery is a full-time job on top of my 9-5 full-time job. Sorry that I have to choose support groups over dates and therapy appointments over happy hours. 

Sorry that I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that I cry when I notice side effects from medications because feeling my legs twitch uncontrollably at night recalls weeks of migraines, overwhelming nausea and sleepless nights I spent alone for the first months of starting those meds. 

Sorry that I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that when my doctors took me all the way up to twice the recommended therapeutic dose of my new meds I just got worse and wanted to go drive my car into traffic on the highway. Sorry that I missed your birthday party because of it. I had your present sitting in the backseat of my car.

Sorry that I’m not fun anymore.

Sorry that when they dropped the dose back down I still wanted to do the same thing, and I slept 18 hours a day for weeks on end. 

Sorry that you left before things got any better.

Sorry that I apologize too much because I’ve grown used to it. I know deep down that I am trying my best every morning when I get out of bed, and I should regard myself with loving-kindness for the battle I’ve been winning so far. I swear I’m trying my best. 

But I’m sorry that I’m not fun anymore.