a cut that never heals
You take your medications — a cocktail of antidepressants, a dash of benzodiazepines, and some experimental antipsychotics. The prescription is clear: consume a bunch in the morning and add a couple of grams before bed. Knowing you struggle with schedules, I’m always there to remind you when to take them. I ensure there’s a bottle of water prepared beside your bed, although you frequently swap it with vodka.
You are a concept that always lingers in the back of my mind, a construct of my failing synapses just before the lines fall flat. It’s not your true self; it’s my ideals forced upon your soul that I desire to hold and embrace. I harbor a sense of resentment toward you, yet I find myself unable to resist taking care of you. Therefore, I assumed the role of the doctor and uttered these seemingly harmless words from time to time:
“Another pill won’t hurt.”
“A few grams of Klonopin will alleviate the dread, I promise.”
“Take the Seroquel for a good night’s sleep.”
“Add some Adderall so you can perform at work.”
You are addicted to these things, and I am addicted to you. Our dates have transformed into regular visits to the apothecary. Love letters have turned into prescription memoranda. Movie nights are no longer just about films; they’ve become transcendental chemically-induced audio-visual experiences. Sports have evolved into voluntary rhythmic muscular movements triggered by external stimuli.
I resent you when you stop taking these. The uncontrolled mood swings, the bursts of anger, and the endless tears — it’s a version of you that I do not want to embrace. Is this you or just your illness? Blurred lines between reality and my dreams. So I just said: “You’ll never stop crying if you stop taking these”. And you took it all, while my mind drifted into the abyss.
I will never forget the seizure, white bubbles frothing at your mouth. The sound of your gasps, the desperation in my attempts to bring you back — these details remain vivid, a constant echo in the corridors of recollection. The haunting image etches itself into my memory, a witness upon death’s door. A cut that never heals.
