Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Molly Mclarey and the Cylinder
It was no surprise to Molly's mother when she admitted that she had started taking antidepressants. The doctor who wrote the prescription wrote it out in a huff. The pharmacist who filled her handed her the paper bag with instructions and warnings stapled to it looked down her blouse. It seemed to Molly that he sighed as if it wasn't worth the effort.
The conversation with her mother went something like this:
"Mom I've started taking antidepressants because I hate myself."
In an ironically sweet voice her mother replied "Well that's no surprise, you hate everyone, and your kind of a bitch. I've got to go now sweety, it's Wednesday and your father's already taken his e.d. pill."
Then the line clicked off and Molly stared at the red tail lights in front of her all the way home.
In the morning Molly brushed her teeth staring straight ahead at the small bottle in her medicine cabinet. She thought about how brilliant the inventor of the medicine cabinet was, because you didn't have to look at yourself when you swallowed the things that were supposed to make you whole.
When she swallowed the pill she expected some sort of burst of sunshine. She wanted the clouds to part and a white beam of light to descend while a choir sang the "Ode to Joy". Of course that didn't happen. Instead she felt nothing. Her disappointment and bitterness started to fade, but nothing came into focus to replace them. She was not ecstatic, and she wasn't cured. She still hated herself, but that didn't really seem to matter as much.
After a month of mornings staring at the orange bottle she refused to refill the prescription. Molly told her doctor they didn't work. He agreed and then cancelled her future appointments. Molly left the office and walked out into the rain, content with her discontent.