You take the pills – two of these and one of those every morning and do not dare skip a day. They have been prescribed to your by your overpriced, uninterested psychiatrist. You still cannot tell if she is taking notes or writing down her grocery list for the week. Getting them down used to be a task; now it is a reflex – in your mouth, down your throat, into your body. You wait for them to do their work, considering you cannot do yours until they do.
You leave the house. You go out into the world. Everything and everyone seem to be passing you by so quickly – cars, trucks, women and men in their business suits – all while you stand there, still. Even with the pills and the therapy, you still seem to move at half the speed of all else. They tell you that they are working. They are doing their job; the rest is up to you. Doing things that you used to enjoy does not help – you were a different person back then.
Outside, the air is cold. It’s all you can feel – in your lungs, against your skin; you can even feel it in your bones. It numbs your body but it is a familiar feeling. It almost feels good knowing that for once, you feel something you are supposed to, something that everyone else is feeling.
At the end of the day, you come home. You skip dinner again because you are not hungry and you cannot stand the thought of choking down another meal – whatever the excuse is tonight. You sit alone. You stare at the pills. It has been awhile since you have gotten a refill. You do not have enough to finish yourself; you only have enough to give everyone a scare. You stare at the blade and its ever-inviting sharp edge. You pick one up. You look at your wrist. You continue to sit in silence. You weigh your pros and cons. You do not even have any emotion towards your life or your death. You put the blade down. You mumble to yourself, “not today.” You go to bed haunted by the thought of yesterday, today, and tomorrow because they are all the same.