20 Confessions of One Clinically Depressed

Confession 04: I hate pills and blue eyes

There are seven pills.

One green.

Two blues.

One oily.

Four whites.

Each pill has a different shape.

Oblong and fat.

Short and round.

Squishy.

Hard.

In-between.

I like to arrange them according to their size. I know that Kara/Karan, my nurse, gets irritated when I do so, but she doesn't say it. Instead she watches me with hawk eyes as I slowly spill the pills onto my tray and proceed with my sorting. I then take each pill with a swallow of water.

I've been doing this for a week now.

I feel so disjointed. Woozy. Numb.

Kara/Karan's got blue eyes.

My father has blue eyes. My mother has blue eyes.

I have blue eyes.

I look Kara/Karan in those fucking blue eyes.

Everyone has blue fucking eyes. Everyone has blue FUCKING EYES.

"No."

I scream, a piercing, earth-shattering scream and fling my tray towards her. I'm angry, suddenly angry, and I don't want to take any more goddamn pills. I'm sick of being treated as a goddamn experiment, pumped full of pills until I'm woozy, and then grilled by Dr. Roberts.

I keep screaming. Thrashing. Kicking. Blood rushes to my head, and I see spots. My breath escapes my lungs with painful tugs.

They come in, their faces stoic.

I can't deal with this.

Their hands grab me.

Oh god.

They yank my limbs to opposite corners; I'm still screeching, but now I'm panicked. I can't see. My eyesight has left me. I can't handle this.

This is all so familiar. They've come back for me. God, they've come back.

A heavy, pressing weight captures my breath, sucks it in until I see spots. Colors. Red. Blue. Orange. They swirl. They twirl. They dance.

Fingers gripping. Fingers tugging. Fingers ripping. Fingers rubbing. Fingers bruising.

I fight against them; in my memory and in real life. I fight until I have no strength left, until I'm limp and I let them do it. Until sweat covers my body and I break out into shivers.

A prick in the crease of my elbow.

Three. Two. One.

Bliss. . . .