I wake up, somehow feeling worse than ever. How is it that I can feel something worse than infinite pain? I don't know, but it's no exaggeration. I get to the clinic Dr Schneider told me to meet him at. He tells me that he'll put me on the waiting list there. I tell him to do so just in case.
He gives me a prescription and says that I'll be feeling great in an hour. I drive to the pharmacy.
"Can I give you Truvalin?" the pharmacist asks.
"What's that?"
"It's a generic," he says. "It's exactly the same, but cheaper."
I worry that it won't be the same. I'm not motivated enough to have this conversation. He gives me the meds and I go to the car, get inside, and take them right away. I used to be on a variation of this. I don't know how it will help me in an immediate way though. I drive home. I lie on my bed, roll around. After an hour, nothing has changed. I take sleeping pills. I roll around on my bed. I miss my flight.
Greg Gelb is here. I must have called him. We're sitting in the kitchen. He makes scrambled eggs and does magic tricks for us. I appreciate his efforts.
Sobel comes over. I must have called him. He comes to my room and I lie in bed. I must have fallen asleep because I open my eyes and he's cleaned most of the room for me. This is not the worst day of my life.
YOU ARE READING
The Truth
Short StoryA young black woman in a psychiatric ward struggles with depression. Brought up speaking only English, never able to fit in with black or white people, she is forced to confront her shaky identity. During the process, she meets patients far crazier...
