Sanity
in a Bottle
BY: Paradox
(Vivian)
My mother took
pills every day.
They were tiny
powder capsules of sanity
In a small orange
or white prescription bottle.
I hated them,
Every last one of
them.
She had twelve
for the mind,
And twelve for
the body,
A straight
overdose her doctor said was perfectly safe.
Half the time she
never took them,
And she was my
mother,
But the other
half the time she was not.
Twelve little
multi-colored pills for breakfast,
And twelve more
for dinner
Depending on the
day.
Some days were
good,
They were slow.
Some days were
fast,
She’d take
more,
That was bad.
One night,
I awoke to
screaming,
Her screaming.
And it was just
like so many other nights.
Dad called 911
and an ambulance came,
She’d had a
miscarriage,
Again.
She never would
get that big family.
A week later when
she came back home,
She took a pill,
Just one.
It was a new one,
Small and pink,
And she downed it
with wine.
It was just me
and her that night,
And all night she
cried.
Not being able to
stand it anymore I marched up to her room,
Went straight for
the bathroom,
And took out
every pill bottle for mental health from the cabinet.
Then I took the
physical,
An afterthought
really.
Opening them all,
I flushed the
contents one by one.
Down goes
depression,
Drowning anxiety,
Her suffering
second personality.
At last when it
was done,
Every empty
bottle on the tiled floor,
I laughed.
All the old,
awful bottles were gone.
But I had left
one.
The new one,
The birth
control.
Ten years later I
held my sanity in a bottle
Just like her,
But for different
reasons.
At least I know where to find it.
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