Pills

She spills some on her palm, runs her finger through the little moving mound (a pretty shade of pastel blue) of her mother’s little helpers (“that don’t fucking help this fucking mother one miserable iota”).

She’s anxious still, all screwed up, the little pills don’t help at all, amongst other things she’s now  all screwed up about the stinging side effects, feels drunk without a drink.

If someone could get inside my head, they’d know, (she thinks) know how miserable, how screwed up I am, but no-one gives a damn about silly little me.

It’s true, her husband is tired of her/tired of it, she drags him down into her melancholy, he dreads every single day. The kids are sick of her, sick of being a mother to their mother, and wish she’d go away, be hospitalised, be normalised so they could be kids again.

She eyes the pills again, the pills she’s spilled upon her palm, gets anxious about the harm she’ll cause (if she takes every sodding one) of those she’ll leave behind.  She loves them still, her lovely hubs and kids, but knows they’d be better rid of her.

She finds herself suddenly strong. Even though a longing in her heart for all she loves, she cups her palm, swallows all (and other meds), doused down with her favoured alcohol.

She is confident she will sleep tonight – perhaps (she hopes) forever – and no doubt she will.  And those left behind will spill their tears, but (perhaps) will quietly be relieved…

Anna :o[

Inspired and written for Paul at dVerse, who asks us to write of medicine.

Working (as I did) with those problemed with mental ill-health, I know of the devastating affect this can have on the entire family, know that family members will/might become estranged from those experiencing mental ill-health, will ‘suffer’ almost as much as they.  It is a difficult problem. 

I have only ‘suffered’ with clinical depression once in my life, due to external factors that I could not change.  Once the situation was resolved (by others) it took some time to recover, be me again. 

Prior to this, in my late thirties, I began to experience severe PMS, something I did not believe existed until it (literally) dropped on me and the uncontrollable anger that came with this, because of it, was unstoppable.    When it ‘dropped’ I recognised it, explained to my family my friends and my patients that I was ‘like this’ because of it… and felt it right to inform, so they would know that my anger was remote from them, not their fault.

But I knew, they knew (by explanation), that it was transient –not their fault.  Some don’t have this luxury…

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels