quitting

Today was Joe's memorial service. Approximately 100 people attended the touching service and several of his close friends spoke. All of them expressed the same sentiment: Joe was a man of extraordinary kindness and his zany personality will never be forgotten.
After the service I came home to find a message from Mom -- Sister's wedding is off. (In previous weeks both had expressed some doubts about the wedding but eventually decided to make the giant leap into marriage.) Last night, Sister's fiance, in a drunken rage, shoved her. Mom relayed other details of the altercation, but I can't recall them. It's just another anecdote from suffering Sister's life. The incidents, the stories, and the lies have metastasized forming a giant, indistinguishable tumor, leaving her family numb, puzzled, and lacking direction.
I've begun to wean myself off my psychiatric medications. I have little doubt that my lack of creativity is directly related to the chemical changes in my brain. I've noticed other subtle changes in my personality: Months ago I purchased Chuck Palahniuk's latest novel and The Basic Writings of Existentialism, yet I have no interest to read them (or anything else, for that matter); I spend too much time watching television.
Every day has become a routine of nothingness, and motivation is a dead ghost.
Before I began taking the medications, I wondered if the substances would impact me creatively, and, while I can't prove it, I believe they have shortened my creative neurons, leaving me uninspired and frustrated. Is it possible I have manifested this fear subconsciously? Perhaps. But I was (and still am) very skeptical of the psychiatric field, especially psychiatric medications, long before my first visit with Dr. F.
When Dr. F. wrote my first prescription, I asked her if the medications were a temporary solution or a lifelong sentence; she said the latter. I refuse to accept a permanent condemnation to mind altering substances.

mc