I could still picture the bodies and blood, the disdain I had for myself, and the guilt of being alive. I hated the zombie-like feeling of being ten feet underwater while tormented by my past.
It was like a constant guessing game, wondering when the pill would finally take effect. More often than not, we would all have a physician change our prescription or tweak the amount to no avail.
Even more odd was that several other friends were still dealing with intense bouts of depression, self-harm, or suicide ideation despite taking a pill that was supposed to curb those feelings. While I’ve known others who’d found relief in anti-depressants, I found none. I took the pills because I didn’t want to feel how I felt and assumed they’d help. I would shuffle here and there, do homework, and then drink myself silly in the evenings. My counselor would often ask me how I felt, and I’d respond “fine,” even though everything within me felt like subdued screaming. This ritual would continue for almost a year. Then I went about my day wondering when the effects would hit. I assumed it’d work like aspirin - take two and the headache subsides - so I opened my mouth and popped it into the back of my throat, followed by a swig of water. My doctor assured me it would alleviate many of the problems I was dealing with, help me sleep, and make me feel better. I rubbed the small tablet between my fingers, unsure of what to make of this new routine that was to happen twice daily. The blue pill with a fifty milligram stamp wavered between my thumb and forefinger.