My mom and dad aren’t usually in the house when I wake up around eleven-thirty or so. Experts say that eight hours of sleep is the perfect amount; not too much, not too little, but just right. I say, however, that twelve hours of sleep is the minimum, infinity being the maximum. Yesterday night was sixteen hours, from eight o'clock to twelve.

Making it through the night is harder than making it through the day. There’s really nothing I can do about it, though. That’s what the medicine is for–to do the things that I cannot on my own. I wander into the kitchen to take the first pill of the day.

My medicine case is broken; the abbreviated lettering of the days of the week is peeling off, each little compartment is unhinged. I struggle to remember which day I’m on this morning–Monday or Tuesday?

I pop the Monday pill into my mouth, followed by a sip of water. I’ve learned to never drink too fast or too much when I’m taking my medicine, unless I want it to come back up. Two empty pill bottles sit on the countertop, the digital clock on the microwave reads twelve-thirty. Ah, I think to myself. I’ve wasted half a day already. My insides begin to twist and turn and the nausea comes; I’ve forgotten to eat again. I can hear my doctor’s voice in my head: eat with your medicine, eat with your medicine.

I grab a banana from the fruit bowl, but the smell is too much.

Rolling my eyes in disgust, I make my way to grab an old towel from the bathroom to clean up the mess I’ve made. I really should know better by now, though it’s not entirely my fault I’m so forgetful; another unnamed and unwanted side effect of the medicine.

After cleaning the wooden floor of the kitchen, I slowly make progress on the banana. Every bite makes my stomach churn, but I force it down anyway. Eating has become such a chore; seeing, touching, and smelling food makes me want to throw up. Eat with your medicine, eat with your medicine, the doctor says to me every time. You’ll feel better afterwards.

I proudly chuck the banana peel into the trashcan.

I sit down in front of the television and flip the channel to the news because I like hearing the white noise. I begin to wonder when mom is going to get home.

I’m not exactly sure where she is this morning–afternoon, rather. She usually leaves a note somewhere in the house, but not today. Paranoid thoughts start creeping up on me and racing through my head: is she alright? What if she doesn’t come home? My thoughts take a turn for the worst. What if she’s dead? Car accident? No, my mom is a good driver. But what if? She’s definitely gone, gone for good.

I close my eyes and count to one hundred. I lie down on the couch and breathe. Nothing is helping, but I don’t want to resort to another pill. My doctor said that the stuff for anxiety attacks is highly addictive, like Xanax, and doesn’t want me to take it every day. I frantically think back to when I last took it. Yesterday. Despite my attempts to calm myself down, the fear continues to grow. A half a pill won’t hurt, right?

I run to the cabinet and grab the bottle with the tiny white ones. Shaking it to make sure they’re there, I hear a rattling sound. I twist open the cap–the synthetic smell of the medicine is comforting. I don’t even bother with a knife; I use my nail to break the pill apart instead. I walk to my bedroom and put a new sheet on the mattress to keep myself busy while the medicine kicks in. Fifteen minutes later, a feeling of peace washes over me; the fear dissipates, the panic ceases to exist. I take a moment and stretch out on my bed, sighing heavily. I close my eyes and think about my mom. She should be home, soon. Feeling calm, I open my eyes again, except it’s dark outside. What day is it?

Just like this morning, I wander into the kitchen. Mom and Dad are both home, now. They look up from their dinner, and say that they didn’t want to wake me up: I’m glad you didn’t, because it was a good nap, I say, a fake smile forming on my lips. I glance at the clock: half past seven. Another day I wasted away, another day I gave in to the medicine. It’s time to take more–I really do need it, after all.

Mom and Dad say goodnight to me. I climb back into bed, even though I’ve only been up for about an hour. It’s the medicine’s fault, I think to myself; it’s not your fault you’re always this tired. It’s not long after I lay down when I fall asleep, and it’s not long after that when the bad dreams come.

I wake up Tuesday morning to find a note on the kitchen table from Mom–will be home at half past one. I sigh with relief now that I know when she’ll be back. Something inside of me still feels off, though, but I don’t know why. I’ve eaten with my morning medicine, I took the right dosages the night before…I look around the kitchen, bewildered and confused as to why I feel this way. My eyes stop at the medicine cabinet.

A half a pill won’t hurt, right?