She is major depressive, so her diagnoses says.
Just a label.
Ink print on a psychiatrist notepad.
More prescription refills and healthy coping techniques.
But will prozac save her from the old obliterating sadness?
Recovery is two steps forward.
She no longer lives in a sea of blankets, wrapped up in sleep's cocoon, which drifted her away from life's inevitable dead spots.
Where dreams kept her company, in comotose, where nightmares use to wake her, with nothing to entertain her but demons dressed as angels.
Recovery is, sometimes, two steps forward, one step back.
With a risk
and a consequence.
How did I get like this?
With scribbled out prescription pads, ordering new refills;
more talk therapy, less sleep.
manic stages of
listless dull hours drifting to day light with only bad decisions to show for it, ones; my mind painted up like fantastic masterpieces.
I am major depressive so my diagnosis says.
So flip a coin,
Upside, take a risk,
Downside, seal fate.
But will prozac save her from the old oblivarating sadness?
Only time will tell.
Prozac might make her smile like she use too, but, God forbid if you ever hear her scream.