Side effects include: insomnia. But gone are the reverberations of the day’s thoughts, the should haves and second guesses. Gone is the ricochet of what could be, scenarios crafted with increasing fallout until, heart pounding and breathless, the night slips away. The worry remains in singular form. The roads may be icy in the morning. Then morning comes, icy or not.
Side effects include: increased hunger. But the numbers tick down on the scale. Too early to tell if this results from fear of the side effect or simply a chemical twisting of an already sensitive digestive tract.
Side effects include: sexual dysfunction. A fumbling to completion to rival the newest lovers, the edging closer to pain than pleasure. A sense of accomplishment for what came naturally when the brain functioned abnormally.
But does it work?
No more complaints of a mind too full. The grocery lists, school forms, dirty laundry, and snack requests remain, but the spiderweb thoughts have been knocked clean. The urge to think each step through from beginning to every possible end, until ideas turn to grains of sand scattered in the tempest of life, has quieted.
Is this how most people think? One clear thought, one clear task, and then nothing.
The garish shades of personality faded to soft pastels. Emotions muffled like sound through Styrofoam.
Is this normal? How much emotion is too much? Or too little?
Eventually, my mind and body calm. The side effects no longer impose enough to question the benefits. Instead, I only regret not seeking treatment sooner.
And why didn’t I? Because we don’t talk about those problems.
Instead, a litany of bodily complaints forms the backbone of polite conversation.
My allergies are just awful this year.
Have you tried raw honey? It’s done wonders for me.
Instead, a toxic familial stew boils, melting together decades of unacknowledged neurodivergence and mental illness. Without words to explain these emotions or tools to work through them, there are only raised voices and passive-aggressive pouts.
You’re so difficult.
No one can hurt your feelings unless you let them.
You’re too sensitive.
Just be glad we don’t beat you like our parents did.
And then the escape to adulthood—only to find the sharpest words return for the next generation in a cycle as familiar as breathing. Wanting it to stop, but not knowing how.
I think you should talk to someone, love.
Maybe you should help more when you see I’m overwhelmed.
The moments of rage build until the voice of the broken child within whispers this is not who you want to be.
Sometimes it feels like I’m not in control of my own mind.
I really think you should talk to someone, love.
Maybe.
The pandemic descends, a pressure cooker for underlying issues.
I don’t like who you’ve become.
Nor do I.
You have to talk to someone.
Hours of untangling generational trauma, avoidance, and ineffective coping mechanisms to realize words alone cannot fight an imbalance. Adding a psychiatrist to the mix after reading a friend’s “Love Letter to SSRIs” on social media.
“Any changes to your medications since your last physical?”
“I started taking Zoloft.”
“How much?”
“75mg.”
“What for?”
“Anxiety and OCD.”
Keys click. Tones shift. Every complaint is now heard with a caveat: This patient is mentally ill.
How ironic that during my last physical they didn’t notice the masking, a performance of normality so perfect they brushed aside the noncommittal concerns.
Sometimes I feel anxious.
Drink less coffee.
Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep.
Exercise more and avoid screens one hour before bed.
Sometimes I yell at my children.
We all do.
It’s almost laughable. The medication which rendered the masking unnecessary outed my disorder. Not that laughing is an option. No telling what they’d add to the chart notes.
Since the pandemic, some Americans carry an anxiety label like a designer bag, but obsessive-compulsive disorder is a next-level mental illness, one that can’t be explained away by a global crisis. Ritualizing makes other people nervous. It’s why, after decades, my obsessive thoughts no longer had compulsive actions to match—at least not that others would notice. Masking level: Expert.
“Any changes to your medications since your last pelvic exam?”
“I started taking Zoloft.”
“What for?”
A shrug. “The pandemic.”
An understanding nod. “And when was the first day of your last period?”
My mind remains calm, barring the occasional dreams at 3am, the anxiety pushing through before the next dose to deliver a message—sometimes useful, sometimes not. There are occasional benefits to imagining every possible outcome. Vivid dreams deliver reminders to change the smoke alarm batteries or check the expiration date on a driver’s license, pulling my unconscious mind to a wakeful state.
That’s when the stories come. The words manifest in complete coherence during the darkest hours of the night. A tantalizing taste of ideas speeding across brain matter without a seatbelt.
The pills work against all my compulsions, even the compulsion to write. The craft, practiced with diligence, thankfully remains. Words can be formed and shifted into sentences like puzzle pieces. But the ache, the desperation, is gone. Writing has become a choice, like remaining faithful to a relationship long after the insanity of first touches and nervous declarations of love.
My days, while hectic, pass with shocking serenity. There is less yelling, fewer tears. More patience and laughter. The generational trauma has begun to dissolve since I’ve become a cool pond in place of a firestorm.
Yet under the surface, the brightest colors lurk.
If only I could dip under without fear of drowning, climb the attic stairs or tuck into a room of my own, and wallow in the lush thoughts and feelings of neurodivergence. A mind beautiful and wild to put the words to page, timeless moments of pure creativity when I feel the most alive. Then, after luxuriating in the sharpest fragments of my mind, converge and rise, a better version of myself for others, to the simple pleasures of sanity.
KATHRYN HIVELY received an MFA from George Mason University and an MA from Rutgers University. Her work has appeared in Scary Mommy, The Museum of Americana, and The San Antonio Review, among others. Though raised in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, she currently lives in New Jersey with her husband and two daughters.
