Medicine 

I was sick.

It beat me down.

I was conscious that it wasn’t the right decision. I’m convinced I knew that all along. I was so desperate to feel better that I took the medicine as often as I could. It made me happy. I was doing better. I was distracted from myself.

I was doing better.

That medicine is what kept me going. It hid the scars that I had buried under my skin that had recently grown so close to the surface. They were so close that you could feel the outline with the slightest touch…and how badly I wanted that touch to be easier for you. But while you were helping me I slowly began to break again. And I abused you.

The dosage was never consistent. Over and under-indulging nearly drove me insane. I can remember sitting alone wanting to take more, but I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find you. You had enough. You cried. You left. You were my crutch and I abused you until you snapped.

I thought I was happy.

I thought I was better.

But people are not medicine.

And you were not prescribed to me.

I thought I was happy.

I thought I was better.

But I am sick.

And I beat you down.

PF

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health or mental illness? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

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