Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Only Half

Half a pill waits for me. I stare at it for a while. 57 is all that's left of the identification code. The ragged edge where I broke it. Took the other half a while ago but I can't feel it anymore. Half doesn't last like it used to. I've been here before; staring at the half of a pill. I know its voice. The way it sounds in my head, my chest, my legs. I've been here before at the end of a bottle wondering how 160 half-a-pills go so fast. The first few--twenty, maybe--slow and steady. Only when it hurts. Promising myself this time will be different. Promising myself I will ignore the voice that starts with a whisper I can barely hear. But the whisper becomes a shout and soon I can feel my arms twitch, just a little at first. That voice whispers "it's just a half a pill". Half. Not whole. That would be too much.  One would lead to two then five and more and thy would be addiction. 

This is not addiction. 

It's just a half a pill. 

1 comment:

  1. I feel I should say I wrote this more than a few years ago in another lifetime, and another mindscape. I had been violently ill with Celiac for about 10 years. Part of that was pain beyond what I could tolerate today; everything hurt and I didn't see much of a future for myself. Since diagnosis I've had a renewed sense of well-being, two kids and a future with the spouse who got me through it all.

    Im thinking about those days because I accidentally "got glutened" and have been sick for days. The aches settle in my bones and gut. And I remember.