Page 157 of Becoming Us
I walked out, and thelovelyreceptionist gave me the pharmacy’s address. Just a block away. I went there in a daze, still wondering if this was going to help—or if I needed something more. Before I handed the paper to the pharmacist, one line caught my eye. I read it once. Then again. Then a third time.
Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Severe Without Psychotic Features
I stared at it. The words blurred the more I read them.
Severe. Recurring.
Without psychotic features? Was that supposed to be comforting?
And I had barely told him about my dad. I’d only mentioned my mom—none of the baggage that came with her. How the hell had he gotten all of this out of that? I knew this had been hard on me, but was it something more—something he could see that easily? A label?
Was this who I was? Who I had always been? The reason why everything felt so hard, why it all ached—why things lingered, not just for moments but forever in my brain, running rampant in there, never letting me forget how much something hurt?
Is this why she thought I was weak?
Why my dad didn’t trust me?
Did everyone know?
I searched for the names on the prescription on my phone. One was an antidepressant. The other, sleeping pills.
“Let me get those for you,” the girl behind the counter said, hand outstretched.
I blinked a few times, then handed it over. Less than a minute later, I walked out with two bottles and a head full of questions.
This had been my last resort. I hadn’t wanted to come here. But a quiet voice in the back of my mind kept whispering,It’s this or nothing. Both options terrified me. One was starting to sound like relief.
Major depressive disorder.
Severe.
Possibly recurring.
Was I ever going to stop feeling like this?
Maybe this was it. Maybe my life only came in two flavors now—numb or broken.
Sounds like fun.
I walked home. Dropped the bottles and keys on the counter by the kitchen. The apartment was still empty.
My mom had tried convincing me to hire someone to decorate it. After the whole apartment fiasco, I’d shut that idea down fast and kept what I started with—a bed and a couch. What more did I need?
My back slid down the wall. I dropped to the floor and stared blankly at the space in front of me. Everything felt hollow. Not sad—just vacant.
I reached for the medallion around my neck. A tear slipped free, silent the way they usually were. I leaned my forehead against my knee and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing against the wave of emotion that always came crashing down when I was alone.
Why did you have to die?
What the fuck is the point of all this?
Why am I doing this?
Holly had been calling me nonstop, even though I rarely answered. I could call her back, but then what? What would I even say?
All I do is take, take, take.
Maybe that’s what my dad thought too. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said the transfer wasn’t about me—that it was just a buy-off. A bribe to keep me here.
