He twinkled at me from across the room. He was young. He looked trustworthy. He was ginger, for God's sake. I found myself pouring my heart out to him.
"Sometimes," I told him, sprawled out on the seat, dabbing at my eyes, "I'm lying there on the couch, not able to think, not able to talk, not even able to breathe. I just want to die. And it goes on, and on, and I'm afraid it will never stop."
He nodded. Stupid as it may sound, I really felt like at last I'd found someone who understood, someone who wasn't just going to look sympathetic whilst thinking of the football or what kind of bra I was wearing or going to the pub. He was really listening. I remembered the last time I'd chanced talking about the incredible pain I was in - the listenee had wondered if I wanted a yogurt. I was at my wits' end, lads, I really was.
"I've got some stuff here that might help," he said, softly.
"What?"
"All the pain will just... go away. All you have to do is ask."
I was aghast. "Drugs? Are you talking about drugs?"
"No need to sound so negative! Whatever helps, helps. You have nothing to lose by giving it a try..."
"I really don't think so," I said, and I jumped up out of my seat, almost falling over myself. "I don't want to get started on that shite. I see what it does to otherwise grand people all over this country. I read, you know."
"You shouldn't believe everything you read, kid." He laughed. "Don't be so naive. You're in pain. This will cure it. This will make it all better."
"You... really think so?"
"Besides, everyone else is doing it. Everyone. You don't want to be the odd one out, do you? They don't want you to know, the media and all that, but everyone needs a bump to get them through the day. It puts you..." he shrugged, and twinkled again, " at a major disadvantage. Now, you don't want that, do you? I'll tell you what, I'll give you this one for free. You can't say no to that."
I hestitated. He smiled. I could see it in his baby blues; he thought he had me. Another customer, another regular to peddle his filth to.
But then again, maybe he was right. Maybe I was outdated in my prejudices. If everyone else was doing it...
"Tell me how bad it is again," he whispered. "How could anything that gets rid of that be so terrible? You can't breathe, you want to die? Sounds like panic attacks to me!" He took up his biro and started scribbling. "I'll write you a script. Seriously, anti-depressants are GREAT."
"But doctor, they seem like... you know, a last resort. And there might be hundreds of other things wrong with me."
"Nah, you're depressed. Everyone's depressed!" he waved the prescription at me. "Take it," he said. "Taaaaaaaake it."
I took it. I put it in my pocket. I couldn't bring myself to fill it. Just as well, coz later on I was diagnosed with gallstones.
Fucking drug pushers, kids. They're everywhere.
"Sometimes," I told him, sprawled out on the seat, dabbing at my eyes, "I'm lying there on the couch, not able to think, not able to talk, not even able to breathe. I just want to die. And it goes on, and on, and I'm afraid it will never stop."
He nodded. Stupid as it may sound, I really felt like at last I'd found someone who understood, someone who wasn't just going to look sympathetic whilst thinking of the football or what kind of bra I was wearing or going to the pub. He was really listening. I remembered the last time I'd chanced talking about the incredible pain I was in - the listenee had wondered if I wanted a yogurt. I was at my wits' end, lads, I really was.
"I've got some stuff here that might help," he said, softly.
"What?"
"All the pain will just... go away. All you have to do is ask."
I was aghast. "Drugs? Are you talking about drugs?"
"No need to sound so negative! Whatever helps, helps. You have nothing to lose by giving it a try..."
"I really don't think so," I said, and I jumped up out of my seat, almost falling over myself. "I don't want to get started on that shite. I see what it does to otherwise grand people all over this country. I read, you know."
"You shouldn't believe everything you read, kid." He laughed. "Don't be so naive. You're in pain. This will cure it. This will make it all better."
"You... really think so?"
"Besides, everyone else is doing it. Everyone. You don't want to be the odd one out, do you? They don't want you to know, the media and all that, but everyone needs a bump to get them through the day. It puts you..." he shrugged, and twinkled again, " at a major disadvantage. Now, you don't want that, do you? I'll tell you what, I'll give you this one for free. You can't say no to that."
I hestitated. He smiled. I could see it in his baby blues; he thought he had me. Another customer, another regular to peddle his filth to.
But then again, maybe he was right. Maybe I was outdated in my prejudices. If everyone else was doing it...
"Tell me how bad it is again," he whispered. "How could anything that gets rid of that be so terrible? You can't breathe, you want to die? Sounds like panic attacks to me!" He took up his biro and started scribbling. "I'll write you a script. Seriously, anti-depressants are GREAT."
"But doctor, they seem like... you know, a last resort. And there might be hundreds of other things wrong with me."
"Nah, you're depressed. Everyone's depressed!" he waved the prescription at me. "Take it," he said. "Taaaaaaaake it."
I took it. I put it in my pocket. I couldn't bring myself to fill it. Just as well, coz later on I was diagnosed with gallstones.
Fucking drug pushers, kids. They're everywhere.
12 comments:
Of course they push anti-depressants. it stops them engaging their brain and trying to figure out what is really wrong with you. My partner was really down for a few months. His doctor here told him to take a few anti-depressants. But when he went back home to France to his own doctor, and he did some blood tests, turned out he had a Magnesium deficiency. Apparently that makes you feel depressed too. A few vitamins and he was grand. I know that it's not the same for everyone but what harm was there in checking!
This is my true story:
Couple of years ago I went to the doctor because..now don't laugh..I was always hungry.
I was given anti-depressants!
Maybe they are just great at filling you up or something....but I'm still hungry man.
Silly doctors (at times), me being a hypochondriac and all.
When's the book coming out?
You're right, Sweary. And do you know where the doctors get the stuff?
On the golf-course. The places are lousy with smiling drug-rep. villains saying "Oh terrific shot there, Doc. Well played, sir." They have white teeth and pressed beige slacks, and eyes as cold and blank as a squids'. They're a lot like the Mormons only eviler and the tiniest bit less relentless in the struggle for souls.
this might appeal to your senseof humor http://www.veoh.com/videos/v237854mFX8ewNa?searchId=8387866619448334510&rank=47
I can't be fucking arsed to go to the doctor to explain I'm depressed because I don't want to be fobbed off with anti-bastard-depressants. So what do I do? Run, mainly.
That actually really works for me, keeps my head straight and then some.
Amazingly, there are GPs over here who are suggesting to people that instead of trying anti-depressants, they go and buy some running shoes and give that a try instead. And it's working. About fucking time too.
And to think I used to try drinking my way through the bad times... ha ha ha!
http://www.petitiononline.com/mod_perl/petition-sign.cgi?anvil
Please sign the petition, tis a matter close to me heart m'dears.
flutt: Done.
Ireland's getting more and more like America. And not in the good, loose-fitting jeans kind of way either.
A few years ago I couldn't sleep. I mean like only sleeping two maybe three hours a night. I go to my GP doctor girl fully expecting her to give me drugs. After a long talk she diagnoses me as being depressed and tells me to go walking or running every evening after work. I did and it worked. After about two days of this I'm sleeping through the night like a rock. I mean down for the count kinda' sleep. Drugs should be for fun not for, "depression", geez!
"Nah, you're depressed. Everyone's depressed!"
That exclamation point showing his barely hidden glee is what makes that truly hysterical.
Totally agree with badgerdaddy: exercise and diet are the best cure.
Also, less porn and more sex.
My jeans are uncomfortably tight.
And I have a headache.
I'm doin' it; I'm going for the drugs. Loose leaf.
Running, eh?
I have to say I haven't heard anyone recommend that, and it seems so wonderfully inspired.
Post a Comment