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My Body As A Science Experiment

Originally Posted: 2018

Your brain is a broken machine. You need some tools to fix it.


One year on one little pink pill.

But the little pink pill makes your head fill with a fog the color of sleep. It makes your nerves vibrate like the battery is just about to expire. It makes half the day feel like twice the hours.

But your brain is clicking and whirring again. It is no longer impossible to feel your way through the rise and set of a big yellow star. So you cling to your little pink pill.

And a year goes by. And you’re braver now.

So you go on a little white pill.

The little white pill is exploding in the colors of kissing and crying and dancing on the sand. It is active, which is good. It is movement. It is pace. There is no fog, there is only electricity scattering over my skin, and the depth of awareness I remember from before.

I cut the little pink pills into smaller and smaller pieces of fog. I try to be patient as it slithers its way out of my system. My head throbs with a unique sort of dizziness throughout the day. Like a carnival wheel getting thrown by an over-eager child, with sticky cotton-candy fingers. Sometimes it spins its way down to my gut, all noise and too much false light.

While I’m pulling out the fog and pumping in the electricity, my body decides to grab onto pieces of the air, which embed into my skin in angry little patches. Patches that burn and screech for attention, from my scalp to the skin wrapping around the joints of my feet.

Patches the color of my little pink pill.

I go to a man in a long white coat. I’m itchy. I’m tired. I’m achey. He gives me a little piece of yellow paper with haphazardly inked ticks and swirls and lines. These marks tell the woman behind the counter to give me two more little pills.

Four little pills in one little body. The chemicals crash from my brain to my blood. They fight each other for their place inside me.

I am irritated. I am angry. And I am guilty. My body does not belong to me.

I am a human beaker sat on a sterile table, a fire below me and cold air around me.

I am down one little pink pill. My body now spends days emptying its remnants from the well behind my eyes.

I am inside out. Everything- the good bad beautiful and whatever’s in between- triggers the signal in my brain to turn me into liquid. Into a waterfall.

The journey to find balance is not smooth or straight or sure.

It is crooked and split and covered in water.

And it is littered with vacant orange bottles of those pretty little pills.

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