one hundred and eighty pills,
that’s my prescription for this month.
it was only sixty in March.
isn’t it a bit too cruel,
after this long journey,
trying to slash the number
of those chemical gravels?

how many years has it been?
all those professional listeners said,
it started even before adolescence.
but only ten years ago did I notice,
yet chose denial.
seven years ago, i was diagnosed,
but i refused medication.
and only three years after i admitted defeat,
and began consuming those magic beans,
endlessly.

this heavy blanket, this whirlwind of leaves,
the persistent echoes,
as much as they are suffocating, confusing,
and haunting,
they are just drops of rain in the storm.
it isn’t even that uncommon,
a third of the world’s population has
or has experienced them.
it might take a year,
or two,
or longer.
but they’ll get better.

so i ate well, i cut alcohol and nicotine, i challenged myself.
oh, the dose went down.
i read all the motivational quotes, i kept track of small achievements. i did morning walks.
oh, it went down again, but still not enough.
i met people, i had fun. mindfulness had become my slogan. i went to the gym. i scheduled my day. i tried to get enough sleep, though it was always futile.
the dose was getting smaller, but i could do better.
i prayed, sometimes. i set goals.
and the dose… and the dose…

it went up and down,
shrunk and bloated,
soared and sunk.

please define what is “better,”
am i swimming in a seasonal stream or the perennial river?
am i the weed or tree in this foggy garden?
tell me where among
the temporariness and permanence
do i lie?
though I hope it would be less,
will ten years suffice?

oh, please don’t take my words with a grain of salt.
therapy works, it does.
i am a whole lot better, i promise.
i can earn my keep and go outside,
laugh and play despite this dark shadow
that keeps dragging my feet,
and uninvited guests that come and go
without warning.
still, i am a lot better, i promise.
you wouldn’t believe I am the same person
with whom i was a couple of years ago.

but still i
i am tired of the blue or red or orange or yellow capsules
they kept changing the colors, perhaps, so i wouldn’t be bored.
and don’t forget some Xanax if my engine races, Depakote in case of an outburst, a bunch of sleeping pills that never work, and Alprazolam and Ativan for…
oh, i don’t even know what they are for.

i am okay. no, i no longer think of
closing my book before it ends—
not at the moment, at least.
i’m too tired and broke
to find a way through
this tangled web.

i am fine, i promise.

but tell me, how long must i navigate this storm
with a weary compass?

what more must i do
to clear the haze
and finally see the sun?