Citalopram

For the sake of argument, the following should be considered fiction.

Day One

The second meeting, on time again.  Never late, patient and tap-tap-tapping, the only time I ever listen to NPR.  Classical music.  Tap-tap-tapping, thought I was late but now he is.  A minute.  Too much.  Not like this is the important one, a new talking head, pill jockey and simply an addition.  Simply tap-tap-tap.

Something about an 80-year-old composer.  Swedish?  His fourth symphony, late in life.  Based on a poem.  His poem.  About seasons.  Winter and spring?  A silly pun, "written in the autumn of his life."  Starts up and the door opens and there's Jockey (short, too, a coincidence) standing, the same demeanor I've come to expect from the various shrinks.  Guarded welcome?  Maybe I'm crazy.

Short chat, checking to see if I left anything out.  I stumble.  Maybe I have?  No, no, I'm resigned to my fate, let's do this.  Talk about options.  Tap-tap-tap and he asks why I decided after those years of thinking myself above it all.  Help, talking.

"Who suggested going, if you never thought you needed it?"

I have to lie.  It's too pathetic.  "My mom.  She suggested it."

Half-truth.  She thought it would be a good idea.  But not hers, not originally.  But that's where it'll stay, the ret-conned truth, already removing that other's influence.  Too pathetic.

This one listens, actually hears what I say and asks questions.  I don't find myself repeating the words I've said, unless I mumble.  Sometimes I do and I reconsider and attack from a different angle.  If I can't put it to words, I doubt the veracity of the thought.  I doubt a lot.  But the other has a better scope and he's not a jockey, just a coucher.  The jockey was a last-ditch.

Tap-tap-tap.  Side effects.  Depression (more), suicidal thoughts (uncomfortable), sexual dysfunction (laughable).  Low dose, ramp up to where I'm comfortable.  Tap-tap-tap, the paper in my hand and I'm out the door, almost ten minutes left on the burner but no more reason.  I have what I came for, that brain-dashed hope for some outside influence that will salvage something from the wreck.  I always wonder if they want a handshake when I leave, it seems the professional thing, but I'm crazy so there's no point in worrying about protocol.  Coat on, door open (nice that his set-up allows for the exiting lepers to fully bypass the waiting lepers), exit to the day.  Sunny?  Still wet from the storm last night, lightning and insanity and a cigarette in the midst, daring to strike.  Please?

Getting warmer, went upstairs and shed a layer, left on the new coat (still smells like the storeroom of a department store mixed with aseptic plastic).  No sunglasses, the Sun still hiding behind the stragglers.  A quick decision-- The pharmacy on Stadium.  I remember the stories, my grandfather and his father running their pharmacies.  A different beast now, filled with pointless things.  The old way, a basement filled with farm equipment, medicine for animals, colored glass behind the counter upstairs.  I can only imagine.  All that's left for me.  "He was a farm boy."  But he moved on, went to school.  Became a lumberjack, stole a socialite, a banker's daughter, with a look at his store.  Then had children, an overwhelmed society lady introduced to a harder life raising them.  Doctors, nurse, and that one who became a pharmacist, high school football star, aspiring professor, sergeant trudging in Patton's shadow cast across the Ardennes.  No, no, tap-tap-tap, no more of that.

A store of quick-built brick.  I walked up to the wrong counter and held out the prescription.  She smiled and pointed to the right counter.  Repeat, tap-tap-tap.  Smiles and nods, and a suggestion that, in the future, I buy in bulk.  Cheaper that way.

Waited and watched people complaining about the wait, the card reader falling from its perch near the counter, the woman at the register repeating the story.  Finally, a name.  My name?  Yes, yes, tap-tap.  I walked to the wrong counter, no, now the right counter, miscued and slid the numbers through the broken card reader, keeping it on its perch.  Tried again, succeeded, gingerly, gingerly.  The cashier, she grimaced and called over the pharmacist.  She looked at the information on my bag.  Did she look concerned?  That concerned me.  Why would she be?  Maybe, pity?  She told me some side effects.  Dizziness?  Nausea?  Assured me it was a small dose.  I didn't tell her I'd be back most likely for a higher dose because this was just a test run, a nice how-do-you-do to my new chemical buddy-buddy.  But explaining it like that would have made me seem crazy.  I nodded, no questions, thanks and bye and car again and fast food and boy I was flying down the road feeling like a proper new American with a new proper springboard to productive and... no, that fate isn't sealed.  It's going to help, at least as long as I need it, until I've dashed my brains out and reassembled the pieces and happy and joy and contentment and Buddha was never a drugged-out fuck up.

Scarf, munch and pop goes the weasel.  Samsara.