“So tell me, what can I do for you?”
The doctor is brisk, impersonal, almost severe
She waits, pen poised
She is poised.
I am not.
I start to mumble, pause
Mumble again
She looks at me, face blank
Inscrutable.
The poised pen drops
Beneath her fingers
The keyboard chatters
The printer spews it out.
Here it comes.
Scribbling on the green and white form
Her practised
Machine-gun speech
Peppers my brain.
“You are a habitual depressive
And I sentence you to
One tablet
Twice a day
For the rest of
Your miserable life
Without reprieve.”
I accept the script
Without question
My brain wrapped
In thick cotton wool
Embedded with silver slivers
Of shattered mirrors
Fallen stars.
I’m back in the system.
Again.
I look into its cavernous maw
And know I will be
Sucked to the edge
Of humanity. And swallowed whole
Again.
She reloads:
“Remember, it’ll get worse before it gets better.
If you feel suicidal, ring this number,
Or, if it’s after 5pm
Leave a message
On this other number.
Come back in a month.”
I know the litany of medication.
I know the plan before it is revealed.
I could map it out down to
The day
The hour, even
The second.
Oh yes.
Again.