When people hear I’m on Prozac, they smirk and say, “Ah, so you’re mellow.”
No, what I am is tissue papered.
When on my proper meds, all my pointy, fragile bits (you know, the bits that anxiety and panic take great pleasure in slamming up against the hard sides of Life?) get wrapped up in clumsy wads of tissue paper. (Powder blue tissue paper, to be precise.)
Oh, all my mental peculiarities still throw me against the strangest of walls, but the fluoxetine softens the blow.
So, I survive bruised but not broken. That’s a good thing.
Now, if some smart folks would finagle bubble-wrap for my psyche, my pointy bits would be much obliged.