It is possible that my salvation lies inside this inconspicuous box. Do all anti-depressants make this sad attempt at cheerfulness? Crayon scratchings equal mental health?
Finally gave in to Therapist, and went to see Psychiatrist, who gave me a little su’im su’im for my blues. Talking about it is no big deal, but aren’t the meds meant for the actual c-r-a-z-i-e-s? For some reason I keep flashing to Carrey as Ace Ventura in that pink tutu. No, just…no. Part of me whispers to squirrel them away then hold out for the other psychotropic drugs to mix them with, brought to you by the words coma, rare fatal outcome, and no specific antidote known.
I do want the blackness beneath the manic smile to be washed away but…
‘Screw shrinks, I don’t understand why you believe their bullshit, you need to stop thinking that you need these people,’ he says.
‘Sno, stop the drama, mafeech ila il 3afya (there’s nothing the matter with you),’ she scoffs.
‘You just need to find religion,’ he reassures.
‘Everything has to be a big deal with you? After all, you’re only human, and we can’t all be happy all the time.’
I have to ask. What if there’s nothing wrong with me? What if this is the way that it’s supposed to be? There are many other states in which I’d rather be if that’s the case, none of them conscious and aware.
