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Take this pill & call us never

They told him healing takes time.

Then they gave him a number and put him on a 12-month waiting list.

Because, apparently, the mind waits politely in line

like it's queuing for coffee,

not clawing for air in a room with no windows.

 

I remember the first time he asked for help.

They gave him a pamphlet and a prescription.

No eye contact. Just:

"This one helps with anxiety."

"This one helps you sleep."

"This one helps you not care that you're still anxious and not sleeping."

 

Therapy? Oh, that’s sweet.

You can have six sessions, unless you’re rich or suicidal.

And if you're suicidal,

please hold — someone will be with you shortly.

 

So, instead, we medicate.

Because that’s faster,

easier,

cheaper,

and doesn’t require them to remember your name.

 

We learn to swallow our sadness

one capsule at a time —

while gaining twenty pounds of apathy

and losing the ability to feel like ourselves.

But hey, at least we’re not crying in the frozen food aisle anymore.

 

The irony?

We take pills to feel better,

but after a while,

we miss who we were

before the numbing kicked in.

So we stop. Cold turkey.

Because at least feeling something

is better than feeling nothing at all.

 

And the system?

Oh, the system applauds itself

for prescribing serotonin in stylish bottles

while people rot in their bedrooms

waiting for a call that never comes.

 

Mental health care is not care.

It is a bureaucratic shrug

and a stockpile of side effects.

It is a game of survival

where the winners get a diagnosis

and the losers disappear quietly.

 

We don’t need more pills.

We need patience and presence.

We need someone to say,

"I see you. I hear you. I’m staying."

 

But instead, we get

"Come back when it gets worse."

And it always does.

 

So here's to the brave ones,

sitting quietly in the chaos,

writing their own prescriptions:

sunlight, laughter, poetry,

and a stubborn refusal

to give up on themselves.

 

Even when the world already has.


—a love letter to the broken machine that calls itself mental health care

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