The Happy Treatment

Another shooting happened today. It didn’t take 5 seconds on social media to figure that out. Everyone’s stories and posts looked about the same. Omg this is so sad, those poor victims. Scroll. Something needs to be done! Something needs to change! I am so sick of this government’s - Too long to read; Scroll. This is why we need to take away guns. We need to stop this violence. Scroll. This is why we need more guns. We need to protect ourselves. Scroll. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the poor victims who suffered. No one deserves - Scroll scroll scroll. I don’t know where this one took place or who died or what, but probably half of these people who are posting don’t know either. I read the same stories and posts last week, when another shooting had taken place, and I’ll read the same ones next week too when some other tragedy comes along to replace the one from this week. I don’t remember the details of the shooting last week. I don’t remember where it was or who it was, and neither does anyone else because that one isn’t trending anymore. I don’t remember who posted what, who wants guns and who doesn’t, and I can’t remember which people pray for the victims and which send “good energy” to them. I don’t care and neither does anyone else. It’s a sad reality no one says out loud because if you do you might get blocked on social media, and then you won’t be able to share your opinion with the millions of others who also share their opinion.

“Cindy, are you seeing all this?” Eva holds her phone up to show me the same thing I have on my phone.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s sad.”

“So sad,” she mimics, looking back down at her phone continuing to scroll. A few scrolls later she holds her phone up to me again to show a post of someone showing off their new makeup look. “Look at her dress, it’s cute,” she says. Her voice is hollow and seems scripted.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’ll share it with you,” Eva says, tapping on her phone. A second later a ding comes from my phone with my social media account announcing, “Cindy Reeves, you have a message!” The small circular photo next to the notification shows my profile picture, with my dark hair being more wavy than usual, my hazel eyes with a hint of green looking brighter and happier with the makeup surrounding them, and a perfect smile. I don’t recognize myself in the bright, smiling picture anymore.

I felt tired. I set my phone down and look around my bedroom, trying to find something interesting to look at or something to do, but I feel awkward so I pick my phone back up and scroll through the same posts. Eva and I stay like that for a while, sitting in my bedroom scrolling and occasionally looking up to look at the other person’s screen to see what we’re showing each other.

“I think I gotta get more antidepressants soon,” I say.

“Why you think?” Eva says without looking up from her phone.

“I don’t know,” I really don’t. More scrolling. Eva eventually continues the conversation. “Have you tried making a post telling your followers you need a mental health day? Or have you tried putting little sad face emojis in the comments of someone posting ‘how is everyone feeling today?’” She looks up with an exaggerated concerned face. She gets a laugh out of me. “Ha, no I guess that’s the problem. I’ll try it,” I joke. Eva clicks on stories people have posted and swipes through them without looking at them, as if it’s more of a chore than a source of entertainment and trash information with a few gems of decent news. “Well,” she says, “if you’re out of refills you can have some of mine before you go see your doctor again. You know it’s gonna take like 6 months before you can get an appointment.”

“Exactly,” I said, “so why would I take yours knowing you’d have to go through the same painful waiting period of not having yours? Not even mentioning the cost of those expensive tiny fuckin’ pills?”

Eva finally puts her phone down, a dash of mischief fills her expression. “Because,” she quiets her voice and whispers dramatically, “... I found one.”

I threw my phone down, “You did not!” I said excitedly, “who??” To “find one” these days only means one thing: A pill pocketer. A pill pocketer is a person who sells prescription drugs for disorders like bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, all of the personality disorders, and yes of course depression, all for an affordable price, unlike the pharmacies today. They’re always wealthy individuals or even sometimes whole families who scam multiple different doctors into prescribing more medicine than they need in order to resell it. It’s an easy thing to do, since doctors hand out those kinds of prescriptions like candy today. However, a pill pocketer is a rare and hard gem to find, especially if you don’t know the right people, which Eva and I usually don’t. No one wants to spend more money than they should on already ridiculously expensive medications just to sell them to people in need to get less money back. Most people in this country today couldn’t even afford to do that even if they wanted to.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” she began, “The guy from our school, Ryker Terrafino. When I went to his house the other day, things went really well.”

“Ugh shut up and get to it,” I said. Eva laughed. “No, not even in that way! -” It was then that I noticed her smile, the one that appears mischievous and suspicious at the same time. “No wait. Girl, you lying!” I said, “You’re doing your dumb smile thing and that’s a tell, I know!”

She loses the smile instantly and continues in defense, “No!” she shouts, “Seriously, things went extra well because when I was trying to find the bathroom, I opened the wrong door,” she holds her hands out dramatically, “and there it was! A whole cabinet of unopened medications for tons of different disorders. They are 100% pill pocketers.”

“So what did Ryker say when you opened it?”

“Well, that’s the thing. He doesn’t exactly know I found it.”

“Eva!”

“Whatttt I didn’t want to scare him off. I haven’t known him for long. We have to make sure he’s a good one first.”

Eva did have a point there I guess. If pill pocketers get caught, major fines will have to be paid along with usually prison time if the case is drastic enough. However, the more wealthy one is in this country, the better the lawyer one can afford, and really, the crime committed is not as important as the lawyer. Here, punishment doesn’t depend on what crime was committed, it depends on how good your lawyer is, and shit can these wealthy pill pocketers afford lawyers. It’s a lovely cheat in the screwed up system and the screwed up system hasn’t quite figured out how to sabotage it yet, but they’ll probably find a way soon while everyone else is distracted by the weekly shooting to post about.

Another important aspect to consider is whether Ryker’s family is one of the rare gems of pill pocketers or the less good, but still good, more common ones. With mental illness growing at an extraordinary rate today, mental health has become a business, and the soonest one can schedule an expensive psychiatry session is 6 months away, maybe 5 for lucky ones. So for some, just being able to get the medications needed in a decent amount of time is good enough, no matter the cost. Most people (including me) instantly think of pill pocketers as the rare gems that charge less and do it out of the goodness of their heart. They’re painted as perfect saviors, but most are actually the other ones. The ones that charge more for the medications and often put people in a dangerous amount of debt, and to think this is all just for a sense of relief and escape from the reality of today’s fucked up mind in this country. It’s almost everyone today who goes into debt from pill pocketers and pharmacies do almost the same except one receives more medication months later from when they actually started needing more.

Lacy Shutterfield. A schizophrenic from my high school who killed herself because she couldn’t bear to listen to her dead mother’s voice ridiculing her for 3 more months before she could get her medications to quiet her mind. Andrew Simmons. A boy with bipolar disorder who lasted until his appointment but once received his medication overdosed on lithium carbonate because he couldn’t stand coming out of his manic episodes and having to deal with the consequences of what he had done during those times and wanted his mind fixed immediately. A’mya Hollins. An anorexic who starved to death while her parents were left waiting for months to hear a call back that there had been an opening spot in an eating disorder treatment center. Hori Pricher. Her family fell into a tremendous amount of debt after multiple purchases of antidepressants from profiting pill pocketers. I could go on.

These aren’t uncommon stories in this day in age.

As far as Eva and her family goes, however, whether Ryker’s family is the rare gem of pill pocketers or not, Eva can afford it, which left me wondering why she is even slightly worried about which Ryker’s family is. She usually doesn’t possess a care in the world for how her family spends their money.

“Why do you care whether he’s a good one or not? Can’t you afford it either way?” I blurted out. Eva gave me a look.

“As rich as you may think we are, Cindy, my family doesn’t just give out unlimited money to me,” she says defensively.

“Sorry, it’s just it seems like they don’t hesitate to let you buy the whole mall whenever we go shopping, so I just assumed they’d let you buy the things people actually need.”

“That’s only my stepmom when she wants me to leave her alone.” She let out an annoyed laugh. “Anyway,” she continued, “guess there’s something I should probably tell you now…”

I was confused. Eva keeping secrets? She never striked me as the kind of person with secrets with as much as she posts on social media along with the other mindless openbooks.

It felt as if ages passed by before she finally began talking again.

“So,” she began, “you know how my parents are, especially my dad, with this whole mental illness epidemic that’s been a thing for pretty much as long as we’ve been alive, right? How, you know, ‘it’s a total scam’ and stuff?”

“Well of course it’s a scam! Just take a step outside and you’ll see the brokenness on people’s faces how they’ve just been trying to make it in this depressing society with medication that costs more than their fuckin’ life a month! You know it really doesn’t have to cost as much as it does? Duloxetine used to cost like $15 for 30 pills and now people are going into debt for that stuff! I swear-”

“Cindy,” Eva rolled her eyes. I had gone on one of my rants again. I probably sounded like an old man in a grocery store complaining about how a loaf of bread used to cost 10 cents whenever I went on my rants. “Sorry, yes I know,” I shut up and let her continue speaking.

“Well,” she let out a sigh trying to continue, “he said he’s sick of these expensive appointments with doctors and on top of that having to go pay more money to get the actual prescription and yeah. So he said I either find a pill pocketer, the kind that’s impossible to find, or I…” Her voice faded out.

“... Or you… what?”

“Or I get the procedure.”

I must have looked like an idiot with how long I sat there with my mouth agape. The procedure: another vague term that everyone knows exactly what it means now. It’s not like a normal procedure to fix a flaw or an injury in the body, no this was the procedure.

“Listen, I haven’t decided yet,” Eva said, “But this is a big opportunity.”

I still couldn’t find words to throw out of my mouth. That was probably for the best anyway. We made a pact so long ago, I wonder if she even still remembers. If one of us can’t get the procedure, then neither of us would.

“Uh,” I said stupidly, “I don’t know what to say… except I sure hope Ryker’s family is one of the good pill pocketers.”

Eva looked hurt, as if she were asking my permission and I had just said no. It’s clear now she did remember our pact so long ago.

“Yeah…” she said shyly, “So you think I should talk to him when I see him again?”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll help since he likes you,” I said positively. Eva blushed, it was the perfect distraction to get her mind away from the procedure. “Girl, we’re just talking right now shush,” she spoke slowly and romantically.

:) :) :)

I couldn’t sleep that night. Although our conversation about the procedure was quite short, I replayed it in my head. I barely remember what we even spoke about after. We talked about Ryker and Eva and scrolled more on social media only to find more posts about the exact same thing. It made me sick. That’s all I can remember really. After I replay the short conversation in my head, it starts from the beginning and plays again. It replays if I sleep on my side so I turn to face the ceiling, but it still replays there too, so I might as well have it replay in every position I sleep in before I even try to fall asleep to make the sequence even. This feels torturous, and I want to escape, but I can’t escape my own mind, unfortunately. But Eva can if she decides to. That’s what makes this night of thinking worse. The fact that Eva may escape these feelings soon and that I may be left with them alone, not even with Eva to have the few deep conversations we have already.

Why am I so worried about this? I ask myself, Eva’s right, this is a big opportunity for her and who am I to be so selfish and ruin it for her?

My mind feels like all of its opinions are fighting each other. Eva is my best friend, of course I want her to be happy. Eva is my best friend, of course I feel better when I have someone to be sad with. I feel so conflicted, and I replay the conversation again, only I analyze the small details this time, searching desperately for an answer to resolve this chaos in my mind. Eva had new scars on her arms. They tend to be the most noticeable on her with her white but tan arms. Her blonde hair was up in a messy bun, I don’t think she brushed it this morning. The nail polish on her fingernails seemed fresh yet chipped as if she had been biting at them. Her face looked tired, which was barely covered up by a pathetic attempt at makeup. I remember noting that her voice sounded hollow and uninterested when she showed me a post on her phone. Why am I just now noticing all of these details when she’s not even here for me to notice them? Why didn’t I say anything? I didn’t ask her how she was doing or if she was okay.

I was just too tired I think.

We both were. We both saw each other and knew how we were doing, so why waste the energy and ask? We were both tired, tired of talking about the world and society and only getting more depressed, tired of talking to each other but the other not being able to understand. I guess that’s what makes Eva and I friends though. We both understand not being understood. That’s all anyone wants today: to be understood, yet no one gives the gift of being understanding. I sadly laugh to myself, isn’t that funny how that is?

I guess that’s what I’m afraid of losing. If Eva gets the procedure, we won’t have that mutual understanding of not being understood anymore. It’ll just be me, alone. It’ll be me, not being understood and not having anyone to not be understood with. Eva will be happy, and I won’t. I want to be happy.

I miss being happy.