Every Sunday since the summer of 2000 I’ve been defeated by my pill box. I’ve got one of those big clear rectangular monsters that has 7 largish compartments, 1 for each day of the week. When I got my first one it had a lock on it. Because I’d regularly fling it across the room and then I’d try to kill it.
Those first pills really called the question – when is the cure worse than the disease? My body was turned inside out by those things. Except for my experience with Typhoid, I didn’t know what sick was, or how far a body could be pushed, until I started taking those damn things. My metabolism shut down, I packed on 150 pounds, my hair fell out, my skin became one unberable itch, my internal thermostat went nuts, everything hurt, the migraines never stopped and if I was more than 4 steps away from a bathroom you could count on dry cleaning and carpet shampoo. Best of all, none of the pills helped with any of my symptoms, and as you can tell they actually made things much, much, MUCH worse.
And yet, every Sunday, I was expected to do the “adult” thing and refill my pill case with next week’s dose of toxins. It drove me even crazier than I actually was. That’s when I started cutting, for example. I had no way out at all – I felt like some trapped animal chewing its paws. This went on for years – utter defeat every Sunday, hopeless resignation each night the rest of the week.
And then, one day, I decided I’d had enough. The cocktail wasn’t working, but my mind cleared just enough to say… “um, this isn’t working.” I started taking my diagnosis and my treatment into my own hands. It was slow going at first – I still felt the need to work with the establishment on this. Which immediately reminded I was crazy and had not been to pill school. I’m gonna shoot that guy, I swear. Anyway, I finally abandoned all pretext and struck out entirely on my own.
It’s been 9 years. Tonight is Sunday night. I just filled my pill case – for the first time in 9 years, with vitamins. Fish oil. Hair pills. Allergy meds. A bit of kelp. I like kelp. There’s not one single toxin in the entire mix. Not. ONE.
I want to run naked down the street, Homer Simpson style. I want to shout this triumph from the rooftops! I could cry, I’m so happy. So relieved. I lived long enough to see that box full of things that won’t hurt me. Beaten by the box no longer!!!
Good gods, life is good.