“Did I take my meds?” seems to be the most asked question in my life these days. I can never remember. I often suspect the answer is “no”, though. You wouldn’t think it would be so hard to remember to take 6 little pills that improve my life so much and yet I find it nearly impossible. I mean, the 4 in the morning are easy as I have them all with my tea. It’s the other two.

One of my medications, I’m supposed to take one pill with every meal. But that doesn’t always work out. Especially if I’m busy and end up eating out. Which, sadly, happens a lot when you’re a full-time student. I do always try to keep a couple extra pills on me, in case of need, yet they always seem to end up in my other bag or in my locker that’s out of the way or forgotten at home when I actually need them.

Medication won’t work if you don’t take it correctly. Don’t I want to be sane? To be able to claim to be normal? I don’t know, anymore. Maybe I miss my old normal. Maybe I’d rather be fucked up and broken. It’s easier. Even though it really isn’t very easy at all. Maybe I’m just sick of trying.

It’s not as though anyone really cares. That’s just something you tell yourself so you have a reason to keep faking it through each day. Does it matter to them whether they see you at home or in the hospital? Not terribly. Will they even notice when you’re dead? Not after the first month or so. People just get used to things. It’s not the same as caring.

Will you take me for granted? Because I’m not, and you probably don’t want to find that out the hard way.