Just a Pill
written by Cheryl Norimoto
It's hot. The shirts are sticky and my underclothes feel the sweat coming through the pours of my body; it's hot. Real hot. Yet I prevail in front of the glowing monitor and the dead silence. A howling storm of nothing. It's the afternoon. The rain that persisted for several hours dies and it leaves a humid air of sticky wetness; I feel it. That stickyness clinging to my clothes and to my hair. It's pulling at my temperment too.
But I'm on the computer writing. Like now. In solitude. The thoughts that come from heat and sweat. It's the core of the soul I tell you but I can't control it.
My gosh it's so hot.
I can't stop sweating and laying in rumpled sheets of ancient cream. I do this once in a while and then I go back at my little keyboard, pattering and chipping away at a white screen. Why? Because... because... b--the thoughts. I can't control them. They want to be known. They're everywhere, using me as the channeling tool for their needs, just wanting me to do something. Voices... It's like the voice that's never heard but felt. It's something inside, deep inside. Gnawing, the shadow of the soul you think you have. But it's darker and it wants you to succumb.
AND IT'S GOING TO DIE.
It's going to die because I told them to kill it for me. "Help me!" I pleaded. I tried razor blades, glass shards and jagged torn skin ripped from it's roots. Didn't work. Over dosing on pills, on medicine cabinet's conctions failed. I dressed in pure black, faded my skin pale and read books of death. I hailed death as my savior. I told them, "This black. Do you see this? This black--" grabbing my shirt of an ebony hue, "will be your curse. You're gonna be sorry. Real sorry. You've never felt pain until you've lead the life I've lived. You're gonna be sorry."
They laughed.
Then I showed them. I walled myself in and I never let anyone know. Rumors started to circulate about me, how I lured souls in and devoured them. Some even went as far to say I died and I was a tortured soul living in the 19th floor of a demolished building.
Its was only when I came back, people were different. "Hi... Glad to see you back." Sure you are. You're just glad I'm not dead so I can suffer, that I'm not okay, that you're better than I am and the moment I become happy you're gonna spit in my face. Not this time.
So here I am in solitude and in sorrow; I can't do anything about the urge to destroy and destruct. I am out of control of the voices and I can't help but wonder the free falling feeling from the window of a 19th story window. It is awefully hot... but it's 2:30 p.m.
He calls from the intercom downstairs and I say I'll come right down. My sweet time between the phone call and the actual going down is tied up by a shower. Long, hot and sticky, hot water definitely makes you want to dig nails deep inside and rip it out.
It's only when I'm done, dressed and go down that we start with the small talk. "How's it going?" he asks. "Fine..." I mutter. He talks for the rest of the day and I sit placidly in the car until we get to the building. A tall white building. Cheery. But I expect that from a shrink who's going to cure me of my "ills".
So several hours later, of probing and poking, the conclusion? A pill.
"You have what they call a 'chemical imbalance'. Now I'm not sure how well you are of the details of this but it's like a chamelon and a gecko..."
So I am left with a small pill. 20 mg paxil. Take 1/2 in the morning and the other half at night. In one week, it's supposed to mess with the voices and make me the way I was before... happy. So this means my up and down moods are going away now. No more and I can be normal again.
But he doesn't know. He doesn't know the voices. They're telling me I can't live without them. That we're a whole... My creativity comes from them. Can I really live without them? I cherish my misery. I'm taking the pill anyway...
God it's hot. It's the night and it's hot. I'm opening a window. Good view. Golf course, a lake, another building. Dammit. It's still too hot. I'm openning it further... a little more... further... god it's finally cooler....
(C) Cheryl Norimoto. "You can quote it but don't steal it."
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