Wellbutrin Turned Me Into A Korn Fan

At least, that's what I told myself.

I hate asking for help. Like, I actively avoid asking for help until I’m in a hole so deep that it threatens to leave me forever fucked if I don’t claw my way out. I’ve been like this my entire life, and it’s a tendency that has impacted my academic, work, and love life for as long as I can remember. My reluctance to show vulnerability contradicts my career of Being Vulnerable On Main, but it’s real, and it’s debilitating.

Even in widowhood, I’ve been hesitant to take up offers to help me out with tasks around the house or other errands because the thought of making it even more clear that I don’t have it all together is mortifying.

With these fears front of mind, I sat in the exam chair in my psychiatrist’s office earlier this month, and—in my roundabout way—I managed to ask for help. I admitted that I could never remember to take my second dose of Adderall, so I mostly gave up even trying. I told her I’ve been feeling stuck, like my head is trapped in those disgusting 1950s gelatin molds, floating in the aspic among cubes of ham and flecks of cabbage. I’m frustratingly self-aware enough to understand that I’m in the throes of self-sabotage but too paralyzed in indecision to do anything about it.