One Month On Prozac

It's weird. I notice a difference but it's really hard to put my finger on exactly what that difference is.
It almost feels like it's just made me really okay with my depression. I spend as much, if not more, time alone as before and I'm still really unhappy about that, but I also just don't feel like making the effort to go anywhere or hang out with anybody and I'm not unhappy about that. I'm suddenly okay with the loneliness and not caring and not making an effort.
I still spend a lot of time thinking about how it would be fun to hang out with friends, go to concerts or parties or to, like, take a trip to visit out of town friends or go to the zoo or something. I don't make any effort to do any of those things. I just think about them and how they might be fun.
Every day for the past two weeks I've thought "I'll call Dan tonight and see if he wants to hang out." I have yet to do so. I'd like to; I haven't seen him in a while and I miss hanging out with him. But it takes too much effort to call or text and hope he responds, and then if he does want to hang out I'd have to leave the house and drive to his house and it'd be fun while I was there but then eventually I'd have to leave and come home again and that doesn't sound fun and I'm already at home, so why bother?
I started writing an exploitation movie. I read about them a lot (specific kinds of exploitation movies, anyway; the kinds that get written about in books and magazines about horror movies) and I decided I want to make one. It's going to be practically nothing but rape, cannibalism, nudity, gore and extended scenes of a band playing in a nightclub for padding because apparently exploitation films are often badly paced. I was alarmed at how quickly I came up with a synopsis for the movie (about five minutes; for comparison, it took me more than a month to come up with a proper outline for Sunny Ella) and even more alarmed by the fact that it is practically nothing but cannibalism and rape and so on, and how casually I come up with that sort of thing. I don't know how to write happy things or even just non-dysfunctional things.
I feel like I've spent the past however-long-it's-been-since-the-Prozac-kicked-in doing a lot of self-reflecting and I'm seeing myself very clearly. I realized that my brain is irreparably fucked up in a lot of ways. I'm remembering things I had blocked, I guess, mostly things about being picked on in school and shit like that. I always knew I didn't have a lot of friends when I was little but I'd forgotten how much people were mean to me when I was a kid.
I always just assumed I was normal and that everybody feels like this all the time, too, but apparently that's not the case. My brain is miswired and broken and malfunctioning and for the first time in my life I see that very, very clearly.
And I'm okay with it, I guess, because of the pills.
I'm not okay with the fact that I'm damn near thirty and I'm writing a blog post that may as well be coming from a whiny fifteen year old with no real problems.
Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe my brain is wired to be that of a whiny fifteen year old forever and ever.
I fucking hate teenagers.

Be seeing you.
-Sally