#81.

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Diriliş 'Ertuğrul' 81.Bölüm Fragmanı

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Yo Gotti - 81

there are 81 antidepressant pills lined up in 9 lines on my bedside table and my psychiatrist calls me every tuesday at 8:01am to ask how i am doing and i tell her how i am not routining, how my odd is cooperating, is hibernating, how i am falling in love with this part of myself, the part that is supposed to be silent, be still i haven’t taken my pills in 81 days, but the psychiatrist doesn’t know that, still refills the prescription, i still go to the pharmacy, tell them my name, pay the price of illness, and continue on my day –– it’s part of the routine the part of the routine where the orange pill bottles pile up, where each pill gets separated and organized, where they don’t ever enter my system but still make me part of the system, the part where i fake it––tell myself to fight the outward show of my reality, look at the palms of my hands and see failure, see medical puppet, see traitor, see forced still to too-fast fingers i think that i am falling in love with this part of myself my sister calls me to tell me about the baby i play excited, play okay, tell her everything is going fine but there are 9 lines of 9 pill son my bedside table and i don’t know how to tell anyone this because my psychiatrist never asks me if i’m taking the pills, only asks how i am doing ... i have trained my tongue to force slow fine, she has to believe me hibernation, empty shell, wandering sleepwalker because if i tell her she will call me crazy, mental, act as though this is my cry for help, this is not my cry for help i think that i am falling in love with this part of myself how there is no stopping this headache, my ocd is not going away these running thoughts, the counting numbers, the relentless nagging of the beast on my shoulder my thoughts, a speeding bullet, unstoppable. these pills, create target to destroy, shatter into shrapnel my psychiatrist keeps calling my thoughts disorder, keeps refilling the prescription, keeps telling me to get used to the halt of the bullet i do not want this, pills that grow tombstones in my gut, i tried this before, they tried to sink me heavy, i do not want to be sunk heavy i am falling in love with this part of myself the part that is routining, floating, woke and alive, transformed my fingers, they flutter and dance magic, build safety in every space that is a potential tomb my tongue, when set free from its hold can sing miracles––this routine of loving everything, nine times over, i do not want this love to go away