3:00pm—-My cell phone alarm goes off promptly everyday. I still look at it to see what it says: “Take pills.” Shuffle through my green polka-dot purse, past the keys and checkbook, the million and a half different colored pens I use for grading papers, and find the medicine bottle. Pop the cap…one…two…three pills. I’m up to 225 mg now. 75 wasn’t enough to keep the anxiety away. 150 was better until my asshole boyfriend didn’t invite me but his ex-girlfriend to his Christmas party…225 mg. “Happy Pills” I jokingly call them. What I take to make it through the day “normally”. To keep me from curling into a ball and hiding away from the rest of the world. To stop the panic attacks and unexplained crying. 225mg.

They say that in order to be myself I need to take these pills, to change the balance of chemicals in my brain. I’d gotten so used to the panic attacks and the unknown tears. Now I’m not so sure…is this me? Am I finally myself, or am I the 225 mg?