Three little pills.
That’s what’s left in this month’s refill of my anti-depressant. But there’s two more months of refills after this. I count them every night.
Three little pills.
And another prescription hanging on the fridge with an appointment scheduled to talk about how I’m doing.
Three little pills.
And the looming resolution I made to wean from my meds this year.
Three little pills.
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And I ask myself “Is this month the month? Is now when I try?”
Three little pills.
And I think about the week I just had, full of misunderstandings and headaches and sleepless nights and stress and I think “I will never be able to do this.”
Three little pills.
And I wonder if the help this medicine gives is only because I’ve convinced myself I won’t be normal without it. That I won’t be a good mom without it. That I won’t be a good wife without it. That I won’t be GOOD without it.
Three little pills.
And I just want to know that everything is going to be alright at the end of this. Whenever the end of this is.
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