“Take this little (poison) pill, it’ll help you sleep.
The other that we’ll give you will wipe away your grief.
Don’t fret about the side effects, they’ll be gone in a few weeks,”
the doctor said with confidence, lying through his teeth.
“What kind of drug is this?” asked my cautious mom.
“A mood stabilizer, it will keep your daughter calm.”
“Risperdal: an atypical antipsychotic” I read when I got home.
Perhaps she’d have declined if only she had known.
“Look at what this says, Mom. He lied right to our face.
A good doctor wouldn’t do that, this is a disgrace.”
“He must’ve had his reasons, honey, let’s give it just a try.
Next time we go back to see him, we’ll have to ask him why.”
A deliberate misrepresentation of the truth
force-fed to a girl who was already convinced that everyone was lying.
Why wasn’t honesty worth trying?
I woke up the next morning paralyzed in my bed.
I could only scream and slightly move my head.
My mom rushed in, panicked, asking what was wrong.
“Everything hurts, the drug is much too strong.”
Within a few minutes, I escaped that paralyzed state.
I could move again, but only slowly. Everything ached.
Everything was cloudy and I was suddenly dumber.
Confused. Aloof. Emotionally number.
I was accused of exaggerating the extent of my pain;
told it was all just in my brain.
Months down the line, and the drugs still didn’t “work.”
I still spoke to the voices, and I was still emotionally hurt.
More and more milligrams prescribed so the voices would be silent,
and though my complaints were ignored, I acted in compliance.
Not because I wanted to; everyone threatened me with injections,
so I knew better than to hold to my objections.
Eoto advised it for my protection,
I became a shell to the outer world,
only animated during deep psychotic distress.
I was still tortured nightly by my demons,
but hell, at least everyone else had a rest.