To the Thief
To the Thief who stole the anti-depressant medication off the porch:
I get it, I do. It's rough out there and if you haven't got a job to go to, I reckon this is one way to amuse yourself while we are all at work, paying our taxes.
It was a package that could hold anything, anything at all. Something you could sell or ingest, left right out there in the open. Maybe you follow the USPS truck around and "clean up" after them.
I was waiting for them, those bicolored capsules. With everything that was going on then I thought I had left plenty of room for the order. Before I ran out.
When I ran out, I was fine for one day. On day two, I was tearful. Day three: hysterical. Four? Out of my goddamn mind and frightening all I encountered. That has never happened before and it never will again. Never has the front of a Richmond-bound express seemed so inviting. This lasted for four days, while I argued with the mail delivery pharmacy and my insurance.
No one could talk me down or set me right. I cried every tear I had, twice. Twice.
On Day Five, the pharmacist's assistant handed me enough emergency refill for two weeks, I nearly kissed her with relief. I sat down at the counter and shook the bottle, just like the first time, saying to myself: It is going to be okay. Help is here. Swallow this.
Looking back on that weekend, I have wept much less since. Rage and sadness seeped out, draining into the huge stack of Liberty handkerchiefs. It was such a force that what I must do now actually looks possible, as much as I don't want to.
It damn near killed me, this madness. Now it is stuffed back in its little cage, getting stroked and petted and fed to keep it quiet. I do not let him out. I cannot let him out. Ever.
So if you crack open the bottle hoping for a quick high or to experience something "other", I hope it gives you a taste of peace and equilibrium. I am lucky that I know what it is like on both sides of that fence. The medical coverage and all the support of professionals to keep me on this side of the sand is less common than I'd like and you deserve the same level of compassion and care.
You need a better gig, for starters.
I get it, I do. It's rough out there and if you haven't got a job to go to, I reckon this is one way to amuse yourself while we are all at work, paying our taxes.
It was a package that could hold anything, anything at all. Something you could sell or ingest, left right out there in the open. Maybe you follow the USPS truck around and "clean up" after them.
I was waiting for them, those bicolored capsules. With everything that was going on then I thought I had left plenty of room for the order. Before I ran out.
When I ran out, I was fine for one day. On day two, I was tearful. Day three: hysterical. Four? Out of my goddamn mind and frightening all I encountered. That has never happened before and it never will again. Never has the front of a Richmond-bound express seemed so inviting. This lasted for four days, while I argued with the mail delivery pharmacy and my insurance.
No one could talk me down or set me right. I cried every tear I had, twice. Twice.
On Day Five, the pharmacist's assistant handed me enough emergency refill for two weeks, I nearly kissed her with relief. I sat down at the counter and shook the bottle, just like the first time, saying to myself: It is going to be okay. Help is here. Swallow this.
Looking back on that weekend, I have wept much less since. Rage and sadness seeped out, draining into the huge stack of Liberty handkerchiefs. It was such a force that what I must do now actually looks possible, as much as I don't want to.
It damn near killed me, this madness. Now it is stuffed back in its little cage, getting stroked and petted and fed to keep it quiet. I do not let him out. I cannot let him out. Ever.
So if you crack open the bottle hoping for a quick high or to experience something "other", I hope it gives you a taste of peace and equilibrium. I am lucky that I know what it is like on both sides of that fence. The medical coverage and all the support of professionals to keep me on this side of the sand is less common than I'd like and you deserve the same level of compassion and care.
You need a better gig, for starters.
Comments