"Get help."

My days begin the same as all the rest of my days. Staring up at the ceiling from my bed, immobile, paralyzed.

"But who can help me?"

Thousands of self-help peptalks blend into each other, falling on the deaf ears of an immovable body. The ceiling's stark white blandness, akin to that of a nurse that has ceased to care, offers very little encouragement. Rather, it mocks me in its self-acceptance of elevated depression, daring my paralyzed hand to touch its surface.

"Just get up."

Mouth half-open in the universal expression of bemusement passively awaits my overly relaxed tongue to slip into my throat. But I'm awake, I'm too alert for that too happen. My body's own sedatives poison itself, resulting in hours spent pleading with myself to act.

"I can't and don't want to."

The dissonance is what really disturbs me. It's as though the synapses between my brain and extremities have undergone a big bang-esque expansion leaving signals to travel immutable distances to their destinations. Leaving me paralyzed in the thoughts that swarm my mind incessantly.


A bottle given to me by the family physician lies on the nightstand next to my bed. Its the same white color as the ceiling, but with a aqua green and blue curved band that wraps around the label, so obviously a marketer's idea of what excitement on a bottle looks like. Almost as though they're attempting to non-verbally communicate: "Zoloft: The Wave of the Future"

But I don't bite. Not that I'm not completely captivated by the idea of having a normal existence, but right now I'm trying to get up.