Finding My Fix
by Judith Sara Gelt
I.
Bluehoohoo
at forty.
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread. The doctor’s wide form stuffed the room. Leaning toward me, he stared.
Can you tell me how you’re feeling? I’d like to help.
My hands and feet fixed and frozen, my brain laboring through haze, I didn’t comprehend words. But sincerity startled me alert. Misery stumbled from my throat. Air conditioning wiped my cheeks.
Then
an eight-year-old’s
mother.
Once
the daughter
whose own mother
couldn’t mother
her little girl.
Once
mother-tenacity
and meds paid off,
wellness
wandered
in.
I can
almost forget
depression
when I am well.
I can
always remember
depression
when I am well
(if I muck around
in those memories).
Why would I ever do this?
Sometimes depression is hungry and needs to eat
depression,
an acquired
taste.
First, I downed pinky-nail sized, white disks like Oreo filling hardened to chalk. (Weeks of waiting, worrying physical sensations, then weaning-off time.) My second fix—mini-sized, hard, albino quasi-balls. Not pills at all, really. Round enough to roll across hard floors, get wedged in corners. Hide in carpet fibers where, on hands and knees, I scrape with fingernails because what if the dog dies because—of course—she eats the fucking things? (Weeks worrying sensations, weaning-off.) The third medication—a capsule. Faded pink of my pale wrist.
II.
Breakthroughs!
in my fifties.
Bad breakthroughs.
Sad breakthroughs.
Melancholy bullies past
medications.
Hello, you!
Come, sit with me
and be my love.
Here, on the sofa.
Take a load off.
Look!
I’m ready for you!
I fluffed the cushions.
Set the remotes
an arm’s length from where
we sit. Even closed
the blinds. Oh, you’re welcome!
I have Brooklyn 99 on.
And whatever you do,
do not answer my phone
or go to the door.
Let’s not talk anymore, okay?
III.
Making Merry
in my sixties.
No need to shake my bottle
of antidepressants
to verify it’s empty. I ate
the last one yesterday. Gripping
the horrid-orange, plastic bottle,
my hand quivers.
I hope it’s nothing
serious.
Arthritis?
(I don’t
have arthritis.)
For the life of me, I can’t recall
if I ordered the refill.
Gnawing my lips raw and red,
my brain delivers
depression’s invitation—
Come! Party with Dementia!
I’m scared shitless to attend.
I need my fix.
IV.
Some Delight in Detail
My small white discs were 200mg each. I was prescribed 150mg each evening. I purchased a pill splitter. I fell in love with the name—
pill splitter.
V.
Sing a Little Song
at seventy.
The Quintessence of Depression-Meds Waltz
or
Everything Sounds Better Set to Music
(Sung by depressives maintaining senses of humor
while on effective meds. No one else feels like singing.)
to The Blue Danube ~Johann Strauss
My orgasms are gone. / Who am I? Who am I? /
Where the hell did they go? / What the fuck? What the fuck? /
These meds are to blame. / It’s not fair. It’s not fair. /
This makes me quite sad. / Swallow hope. Swallow hope.
VI.
