Fifteen Pills

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Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and the voices.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and a razor blade.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and hospitalization.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and suicide.

Every single day I take fifteen pills just to keep myself alive. While the suicidal thoughts, the urge to self harm, and the voices have subsided for the time being I live in constant fear that they will come back and be worse than ever before. I fear that the symptoms will increase in severity and I will need to take even more medication every day.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and reason.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and a functional memory.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between me and staying awake for more than three hours at a time.

Fifteen pills….

It’s all that stands between me and usable fine motor skills.

Every single day I take fifteen pills just to keep myself alive. The side effects are brutal. I’m losing cognitive  function, problems that would have taken mere seconds to solve in the past now take minutes or are sometimes unsolvable. My memory is terrible. Four years ago I made it through college with taking less than two pages of notes during my entire program, and I graduated with highest honors. Today, I can’t even remember the name of the movie I watched yesterday. The drowsiness associated with the medication I take is unbearable. It is almost impossible to get through the day without taking a couple of long naps. While I never had great motor skills, what I did have is in serious decline. Everyday things like chopping vegetables are out of the question, I can’t hold a pen, much less a knife.

Fifteen pills…

It’s all that stands between living and dying.

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One comment

  1. I know the feeling. Sure, I’m only getting started with correct treatment, but I’ve been downing meds with severe side effects for most of my life. And it’s made a mess of me.

    A mess that sadly doesn’t always make it easier to function in society. A mess that I’ve got to really work hard at compensating for in order to function outside the apartment. Op

    Sometimes, sadly, the side effects are a disease of their own.

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