The medication isn’t working. I’ve tried to explain to the concerned faces, but the weight has worn me to silence. I tried my best to give the Prozac a shot, but it was like tying a helium balloon to the top of a boulder; the effort makes for a pretty sentiment, but the burden remains unmoved.
The heaviness makes my brain move slowly, my smiles infrequent, turns my words into mumbles. I try to think about when this all started, to reach through the fuzz of time past and memories lost. The concerned faces encourage me to look back and find the ‘why’, to find the big bang of the world that I carry upon my shoulders.
I remember flashes and feelings, times where things felt normal, where the apples were shiny and red, crunching between my teeth. There was a time when I trusted the less-concerned-at-the-time faces to help me carry the weight, which used to be far less heavy, the balloon rather than the boulder. However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint the precise time when the heaviness became solely my own.
The medication isn’t working, but there is some part of me that keeps searching for that Heracles drug that’s going to build my pillars again, that’s finally going to help me stand up straight. Maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s actually the Prozac, afterall - hell, maybe it’s just naivety - but I’m going to keep trying, and for now, that has to be enough.
