Needing a Prescription to Lead a “Normal” Life

Needing a Prescription to Lead a "Normal Life"

Sitting at the kitchen island finishing homework, she catches me off guard with her concern. “Are you okay, Mom?” I ignore the question at first, hoping she doesn’t see me hide the white paper bag of antidepressants my husband brought home from the grocery store pharmacy on the top shelf of the pantry. But she persists.

“Mom, seriously, what’s wrong?”

She studies my flat affect more than the algebra textbook open in front of her. Her knitted brow instantly squashes my assumption I’d been successful at concealing the darkness slowly engulfing me. Maybe my crabbiness or trouble concentrating lately aroused her suspicion. Or maybe she noticed the huge effort it took me to get out of bed that morning.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” I lie and grab some diced tomatoes from the bottom shelf, closing the cabinet door and hopefully this conversation. “I’m just a little tired.”

But she’s smart. She watches as I fumble with the can opener, trying to remember how to use it.

“Mom, are you…depressed?”

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