I keep my old pill bottles.
not because I plan to reuse them,
or fill them with extra beads,
stray sewing needles
random coins,
a travel pack of Q-tips,
or tiny paint tubes that I might use to somehow make my mental illnesses art.
I keep my old pill bottles because they are me.
I keep my old pill bottles because they are one month of me.
they are not me because they have my name,
address,
medicine,
doctor,
pill quantity,
pharmacy,
Rx number printed on them in ******* ink.
they are me because they held the chemicals my body could not dream of creating.
What they hold is not beautiful. it is not deep.
it is a second leg you have to re-stitch every day because your body didn't know how to grow one.
Those bottles hold the pills that make me, me.
I feel because of them,
I sleep because of them,
I live because of them.
Before them, I was not human.
I was a body with partial instructions.
Every Month I have to get another extension of myself from the local CVS.
Every month I put an empty bottle in the box on my nightstand because that bottle held what I was last month.

it's strange looking at a small white pill knowing that someday this month, that pill will be the reason you react to something important the way you did or the one you forget to take causing a break down in your English class.

It's strange how I can be manufactured so easily.

How do I do this?
How do I deal with this?
What to do I take?
How much do I take?

These medications being shoved down my throat.
"Take this! Try This! Have you done this yet?"
I see all these suggestions..
But all I see is time wasted.

I know what I need but I don't know how to get it.
The one who holds the cure is 1000's of miles away.

Have you heard of Alice,
The girl in Wonderland?
I am sure you have.
The problem, you see
lies in the words you didn't read.
The part the writer did not need.
While Alice laid upon a bed,
Her mother watched and stroked her head.
The doctors said it was psychosis
And so they gave her higher doses.
She's over-stressed,
She is a mess,
But every day she takes her meds.
She can't find Wonderland again
And so she uses pad and pen
To write some poems, oh so sad
But they help others feel less bad
And that will help her feel less ******,
The closest thing she feels to happy.

I think I’m addicted to pain.
Not my own, mostly others.
It hurts to hurt them though,
I just cant help myself…
I fall in love too quickly,
Then back out just as fast.
Like they meant nothing,
Like we were nothing.
I’m not myself like this,
If I was it wouldn’t hurt,
Id feel happy hurting,
But I don’t, not at all.
Maybe I should run,
Get out while I still can.
Or maybe I should tell you,
Tell you to leave, to turn and go.
This poem has no rhythm,
But its the most honest I’ve been,
I’m a ******* mess sometimes,
But maybe thats the point,
I suffer, because others suffer
And I guess thats my fault.
I am lying to myself,
And that means I lie to you.
I say what I don’t mean,
But in that moment, its true.
I wish I never thought that.
I cant love if I cant love myself.
Maybe that’s my problem…
I’m sorry if I hurt you,
Deep down, I do love you.
Deep down, I am sorry.

Words swim through my head with so much power and meaning I start to drown. My bubble of happiness shrinks the more I think of how to tell you. I mean nothing now, I am just an empty body of what was and could have been. I’m a constant reminder of the pain I have caused. I am afraid, afraid of the sharks biting at my ankles, and yet I swim so close to them, its beautiful. I’m at peace there, here I feel nothing but hurt. I feel alone without my sharks.

Took omeprazole
alongside oxycodone.
Won't do that again!

words spill from the woman's lips,
but I cannot hear a thing.
my mother sits across the room,
nodding as if pleased with this verdict.
more medication.
more artificial happiness.
less control.
that's all I want. control.
something I know I will never have but need nonetheless.
this woman speaks the names of many, many drugs that she attempts to combine.
an artist of intoxication,
she mixes chemicals as if preparing to paint a picture,
but this picture must cover up the old masterpiece,
something so worn and faded
it must be replaced.
for how could anyone love
the crumbling portrait of a once
beautiful girl.

I feel a wave of panic wash over me
As another unwanted hand grabs me out of the music and loud noise
I take a breath and push it down as I let the bliss take me again
Finding myself pressed up against the boy I had met just that night
I feel his hands slide across my waist
And I know that I will soon regret this
But I ignore these feelings as I let the bliss wash over me yet again
Taking advantage of the allusive peace I feel
Even if only for a few hours more

His lips brush against my neck
I close my eyes and savor the feeling of his warmth
Soft lips find mine in the dark
People stare
But I am lost in the calm
Their judgement cannot reach me
Under this wall I have built
Even if for only a few hours more

He grabs my hand leading me away
I am suddenly reminded of myself
As my feet plant firmly to the ground
My head swirls with thoughts
But they are soon quieted
As I bring his body again closer to mine
Even if only for a few hours more

As I walk down the dark street
I brush the bruise on my neck
My hair falls over my neck
To hide the secrets of tonight
Even if only for a few hours more

My eyes open to the light
My head swirling with thoughts
No bliss to silence them
I let their judgement take over me
As I swallow the cure
For another night of peace

This medication is called Trilafon or Perphenazine.
When I took it, I had the worst nightmare I've ever seen.
Life is something to be cherished.
But in December of 1996, I almost perished.
After my doctor wrote the prescription, I took the Trilafon.
If I hadn't been taken to the emergency room, I'd be gone.
Trilafon helps some people but it makes other people sick.
After taking this medication, I learned that I'm allergic.
I'd like to say it was all just a dream but it was real.
The doctors in the ICU saved me with Benadryl.
I foamed at the mouth and it felt like the Trilafon was burning out my brain.
I hope nobody else experiences this pain.
My doctor ticked me off when he wanted me to continue taking Trilafon with a side effect pill.
There was no way in Hell I'd keep taking it after being so ill.
Now I take a different medication and all is well.
It's much better to take Risperadol or Seroquel.
I was only twenty-five in 1996 and that would've been far too young to go.
If a doctor wants to prescribe you Trilafon, please say no.

“You’ll feel so much better,
When the meds start to kick in.
Just give it some time,
And keep your mind open.”

I’m kicking in doors and
I’m breaking glass dishes
And none of it brings me
Any closer to wishes.

Of healing. Of wholeness.
Of anything sane.
Of something, just anything,
To scrub out the pain.

No line of poetry, no act of god.
No deep breathing method or trip far abroad,
Will pull me from these depths that I’m in.
I can’t start to get better
if the meds never kicked in.