Yes, your brain cells will eventually die.
That sentence doesn’t need a “if you do blank” for a qualifier, guy.
Your brain cells will eventually die.
That’s all, folks.
Your brain cells will die from prolonged lack of sleep. Your brain cells will die from inhaling the fumes from household cleaners. Your brain cells will die from drinking too much high-carbonation soda. Shit, they think your brain cells might die from the chemicals released in the air after a lawn is mowed. That’s right: you’ve fallen prey to the insidiously deadly neurotoxic scent of freshly-cut grass.
I respect your opinions here, and honestly, this will be the last of these I answer, because this is not that kind of blog and we will never convince one another. That’s not how it works. I’m not going to bend, and I doubt you will.
But I think it needs to be clarified exactly what constitutes a drug.
Plot Twist: Almost anything that alters your state enough, honestly. That’s why half of the classifications are constantly contested.
Your brain produces its own drugs. The reason drugs work at all is because your brain is already a complex interplay of naturally occurring drugs. Your brain is its own meth lab. Congrats.
To say the “happiness that the drug gives you is not real” is not only inaccurate, it’s almost offensive. Remind me what happiness is. Are you referring to happiness as elation or contentment? Because they’re not the same. They’re very different chemical processes. Happiness is always drug-induced- a reaction to a positive stimulus.
When you don’t have that reaction, you have a neurological disorder.
Now tell me: if someone with depression is lucky enough to find the perfect balance within a prescribed medication, is the happiness they feel unreal? Do you honestly believe that their natural state- in and of itself, a deviation from what’s agreed to constitute ideal neurological health which causes them significant unhappiness- is preferable to their medicated state?
Do you believe they deserve to be depressed?
But that’s different, you say. That’s medication, not drugs.
It’s all drugs.
What you call drugs and someone else calls medication and someone else calls recreation- that’s all the words we’ve slapped on the labels.
I switched off of Adderall because it was exacerbating my anxiety, but now I’m on Concerta for my ADHD. It helps. A lot. And you know what? You’re totally right. It’s a drug. It might have long-term health effects on me. That’s the price I’ll pay for productivity and clarity.
You tell me I can’t escape my problems by doing drugs.
I challenge you to say that to a schizophrenic person.
I fucking dare you.
Not everything can be solved with therapy and list-making. Not everything can be solved with careful nutrition and the institution of routines. Not all problems have non-chemical solutions, and I ask you to please, please make an attempt to see beyond what you’ve been spoon-fed before you apply widespread judgments.
Assumptions like these are the reason I hate telling people I have ADHD. Why we all hate telling people about our misconnected wires and blown fuses.
Because the vast majority of people either look at us like we’re broken or like we’re making excuses, with no middle ground.
You tell someone you have a certain kind of disorder and suddenly you’re that one shopping cart lady who mutters to herself about aliens and screams at the sun. Doesn’t matter what you look like, how well you speak, how well you dress.
And that’s just those of us who are neurologically atypical.
You say you believe our handful of legalized intoxicants should be illegal.
I politely remind you that this was tried. Please recall the Prohibition.
Like I said: it doesn’t matter if you don’t make drugs accessible. If we’re looking, we’ll find them.
And honestly, life isn’t about balancing yourself like a chequebook. It’s not about being a perfect piece of clockwork and always keeping time. If you’d like to carefully regulate every aspect of your intake, never eat hydrogenated fats or processed sugars, always drink your eight glasses of water a day and maintain a minimum of thirty minutes of moderate to high-intensity exercise a day, be my guest.
Do not expect this of the rest of us.
Because hey, you know what? The happiness I feel when I’m sipping a glass of good Merlot and engaging in a lively discussion that interests me is a hell of a lot more genuine than the happiness I feel when I’m obsessing over the fibre content of my food.
And yes, I could do that without the wine. But I won’t. Because I like wine. More for its flavour than effect.
I will continue to eat a diet of shitty, delicious high-cholesterol food interwoven with relatively healthy choices. I will go entire days without engaging in significant exercise but be sure to maintain a healthy level of activity the rest of the time. I will continue to take my medication.
I will engage in a lifestyle of moderation between care and enjoyable self-destruction.
This has nothing to do with my intelligence, age, or level of attractiveness.
This is because I am a person who doesn’t take stock in the self-righteous contentment of people who maintain fastidious lifestyles for the express purpose of looking down on the rest of the world as inferior.
The decisions I’ve made have shaped me. I am who I am because of the people I’ve been and the things that I’ve done. Call them mistakes, but they are the reference points of an adult perspective that’s allowed me to look at my parents and see people who always meant well but didn’t always know what was best. The mistakes that I’ve made are the things that have allowed me to accept that I am most certainly not a saint and to love myself better for never aspiring to be one. My faults define me just as much as my virtues. That suits me just fine.
I will eat, drink, and be infinitely merrier than you, and there is not a fucking thing you can do about it.
I can only hope your lifestyle one day brings you the same level of enjoyment as mine does me.
(Rebloggable by request.)
Relevant to some recent discussions I’ve had.