I’ve been trudging up a staircase of halved white pills
They shift beneath my feet sometimes, but they’ve been lifting me higher and higher, back to the light, back to the life, back to where the people are.
But all of a sudden I missed four steps – there was a gap – and I started to tumble down, down, to where sickness and sadness and darkness fester.
By reflex I grabbed onto one of the powdery edges, and began to haul myself back up, hand over hand. Pulled myself back onto my platform of chemicals and concocted happiness and carried on.
Then it got good. I was out of the shadows, and rainbows and soft-winged butterflies and infectious sunshine ruled my little world. For a week I was queen.
Of course, I fell apart again. A whole flight of stairs crumbled beneath me this time. I free fell for a while, and I don’t know where I am now. I never climbed back onto the chemical ladder. It’s been a week. I’m lost, but feel like maybe I’ll find my way.
**I wrote this over a period of like a month or two when I went off my pills twice…by myself. It wasn’t really a conscious decision, but after not taking them for a couple of days I couldn’t force myself back on them again until I had a complete breakdown, usually after about a week. I think I’m done being an idiot, and hopefully won’t do it again. It really messes me up. Anyway, back on them now, so the ending is from the second time, before I started taking them again. I was wrong about finding my way without the damn things.**