There’s a bag in my cupboard.
It’s crumpled, you’ve left it there, unknown and unwanted, it’s paper worn and soft now, aged.
I don’t know what to do with it.
You know exactly what to do with it. You’re scared.
Are fucking too.
Fine. I’m scared. What of it?
You’re scared to throw away all the expired reminders? All the things you tried, all the reasoning to yourself that the problem was you-that it was always you, and there was some magical way to fix it with a pill.
Let’s go through them shall we, or at least what’s in this bag? There’s so many which aren’t.
Let’s just not. Let’s throw them out.
You can’t do that. You have to “safely dispose” of them, as you’ve been saying for all these years, walk them to the pharmacist and absolve yourself of your martyrdom. You ready to do that?
– – – um- – –
I had hope for that one. Hope that it would swell and make me better, make it all simple and smooth, like planed wood. Nothing like that happened. The dead inside didn’t disappear.
Wanna make a girl feel awesome? Put her on something labeled and anti-psychotic, when she knows she’s not. If I remember correctly, these are from when I put myself in the nuthouse for a week. Maybe they aren’t. But I do remember, the tiny brown pills, the leap into oblivion, the allowance it gave me to not fix anything. Tears and rage and blame. Fires banked, but healthy.
Not indicated. Not indicated for what’s wrong with you. But we’ll try it anyway, and the side effects only count if they include explosive shits and crying fits. Maybe we can’t fix you. Maybe you don’t want to be fixed. Maybe the problem isn’t you!
More of the same. Blind flailing in the dark. The refrain from the doctors that lack of sex wasn’t a side effect that concerned them, like taking away my humanity wouldn’t make me less human. Bloat and wheeze and still, that hole in me, the whistling quiet.
and on and on and on. Is it enough? I spent years shoveling something, anything in my mouth to avoid one thing. ME. And still I end up at the same place. Is it enough?
Are we enough?
I can’t help but wonder, on my way home after another long dreary rainy day, if I’m not coming full circle. I talk to a friend who’s sick, who has bipolar, and I shake my head in near awe. Like so many people, like normal people, I can no longer grasp wanting to die, each and every day. I no longer do it. I wake up, I go about my day, I make lists and plans and I’m happy to do so. I dream. I see something other than a knife to a wrist, a speeding bus, a hearty river I can be lost in. I don’t have those days anymore, and feel like finally, I’m becoming the person I should have been, the woman behind all the years of shit and misery pretending to be a life.
My friend is still floundering through it, most of the time better than others, but I’m reminded to vividly when she says “I hear nothing after I take my pill.”
and I thank anything that listens that I am not sick like that anymore, regardless of why it happened.
Maybe I was never really sick at all, but escaping that voice, muffling it. Maybe I just didn’t know what else to do, trapped in a space and time that couldn’t ever try to lift me up to see above the shit I was mired in. Maybe I was lazy.
Maybe. But I also know that there are no magical secrets in bags and bottles. The work? It’s the hard lonely part, piecing a person back together.