My mother told me that you can’t cure depression that taking pills wouldn’t fix me and taking six instead of the prescribed two definitely wasn’t going to speed up the process. But I met a boy who tasted better than Prozac. He made it easier to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was alive, like I wasn’t empty, like maybe there was something left inside me. He made my bones ache less when he touched me. He made it okay. When my world was crashing down around me, he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped breathing and tried to tear open my wrists to find the last little bits of happiness left in my veins, he was there to lace me back together. But he left and I haven’t washed my hair in three weeks. My mother was right.
