My mother told me that you can't cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn't fix me and taking six instead of the one the doctor prescribed definitely wasn't going to speed up the process. But then I met a boy who tasted better than Sertraline. He made it easier to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was alive, like I wasn't empty, like maybe there was something left inside me. He made my bones ache less when he touched me. He made it okay. When my world was crashing down around me, he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped breathing and tried to tear open my veins to find the last bits of happiness left in my veins, he was there to lace me back together. But he left and I haven't washed my hair in three weeks.

My mother was right.