Two Little Pills

Every morning after I wake up, I reach for a little blue box that lies upon my desk. This is my pill cutter. Next to my pill cutter is a blister pack and a white bottle. This is my medicine. I pop out a big pill from the blister pack, put it into the pill cutter, and push down. The ‘snap’ lets me know its through and I open the lid to see a freshly cut pill, chalky dust around the incision site. I take a half, turn it again, and snap it down into a fourth. I put it on the side.

I open the other bottle and shake out a pill. Will it be a 2 milligram or 5 milligram pill? Today, it is a 2 milligram. No need to cut this one.

I put the two pills side by side in my palm, and toss them back with a glass of water. Some days the chalky aftertaste of the cut pill lingers in my mouth if I do not drink enough water.

This is my daily dose of medicine.

***

It was not always like this. During the upheaval of adolescence, I convinced myself that my cyclical mood swings and depression were just a symptom of the sweeping changes going through my body. High school, weight gain, acne, low self-confidence…of course I was depressed. The travails of growing up, right?

Looking back, I can see now why it took so long for me to realize there was a deeper undercurrent at work. So many bad things happened one after the other. Ridicule and mockery from the other kids at school post-9/11. The unraveling of my parent’s marriage, and the dragged out legal aftershocks.

I refused to admit that maybe this was not circumstantial. As adolescence matured into adulthood, the reasons I had grew varied. If I was a better Muslim, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I lived someplace warm, I wouldn’t feel like this. If my parents just got divorced, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I could get out of high school, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I could just lose 15 lbs, I wouldn’t feel like this.

And then, all these things happened. A horrible accident put the fear of God into me, my parents finally divorced, we moved someplace warmer, I finished high school, started college, and those pesky 15 lbs slid off after escaping from the high pressure crockpot that was high school. For a few months, I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that this was the end of my rollercoaster ride. No more weeks and months of feeling good followed by feeling like crap. No more dropping out of school. No more uncontrollable crying jags. No more wandering flights of fancy that never materialized.

I was on top of the world. Doing well in school, engaged in extracurriculars, athletic, bright eyed, and bushy tailed. I felt like a rockstar. I thought, how could I ever feel sad when I feel like this?

Then of course, came the incredible fall. It happened almost overnight. I can remember the specific catalytic event. The fall has signs, and I can always feel its encroach, but the day the ‘up’ switches to a solid ‘down’, there’s always a trigger. The first day of winter break in high school. Falling off a skateboard. Daylight Savings Time. A simple argument. It sounds absurd, but that’s the way it goes.

The mornings when I jumped out of bed ready to take on the world were gone. Every limb felt heavy, and the simple act of waking up and getting out of bed was monumental. It was so much easier to sleep. Sleep was such a great thing, it was like being dead. I wished I was dead. I didn’t want to kill myself, because suicide takes effort. Also, you get a guaranteed ticket to hell. It sounds strange, but I thank Allah for making suicide a 100% guarantee into hell. I think a lot of Muslims are still walking around today because of that guarantee. Including me. If there had been even a sliver of mercy in suicide, I would have latched onto it and thrown everything away.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. I could not find the motivation to get out of bed, even simply to bathe or comb my hair. My mother was beside herself with worry. A family member finally dragged me to the doctor, who made the diagnosis of bipolar disorder. He started me on a regimen of low dosage medication.

Starting the medication was what really began the change in my life. For so many years I had been in denial that I had a problem. I wanted to figure it out on my own. I thought starting medication would be like giving in and saying I was crazy. Just because the disorder was something I couldn’t see, I couldn’t believe it existed.

That wasn’t the end, though. After starting the medication, I thought, wow. I feel great. I’ve been able to go more than four months without feeling down. I must be “cured!”

Then I slowly, slowly, stopped taking the medication. It wasn’t willful neglect. I would miss a day, take it the next, miss a couple of days, and take it again until the stretches of time in between grew longer and longer. The rubber band snapped, and when it did, I started to as well. Another crash and burn.

I realized I was missing the big picture. I saw a problem that I thought was “fixed.” Every time the “fix” didn’t work, I thought there must be something else. I finally realized I was completely wrong.

Be sure We shall test you with something of fear and hunger, some loss in goods, lives, and the fruits of your toil. But give glad tidings to those who patiently persevere. Those who say, when afflicted with calamity, ‘To Allah we belong, and to Him is our return.’ They are those on whom descend blessings from their Lord, and mercy. They are the ones who receive guidance.” – The Quran (2:155-157)