I stopped writing. Not because I fell out of love with it... My emotions just seemed to disappear.
I started a new medication. The doctor said it would help my panic disorder, and it did. I took that pill, like my mother talks to God (every morning).
When I went back to the doctor she said we had to up the dosage because apparently having 2 panic attacks a week still isn't okay. I told her that when I woke up this morning I got out of bed without crying, but she didn't consider that as much of a victory as I did.
When I was put on a higher dosage, my emotions shut down. After a few weeks I stopped crying, my OCD got better, my panic attacks were gone, and I could even go into the student union of my college campus without my heart trying to win a race against my thoughts.
I could breathe.
But, I also stopped having fun. I felt like a stranger in my own body. My emotions found the exit on the plane and jumped, never to be found again.
Since when did being able to breathe require me to feel like this?