Thoughts

Reading the journals of Sylvia Plath is like listening to my own thoughts - except she says what I can't find the words for...

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

Placebo laughter. Real drug

In one of my classes at Uni the other day, we started to learn about administering drugs to patients and dosages etc. After the initial classroom work we were sent into the labs to take turns at the drug trolleys. All of the drug containers were filled with placebos of course, but the point was to prepare the drug and calculate the dosage.
The girl who I was paired with seemed to be having fun with the exercise and rummaged through the trolley looking for the most original drug she could to give me.
"Here you go love," she said smirking and shoving a medicine cup in my face containing 2 small green capsules.
Our tutor came over then willing to be included in the joke.
"What did you give her?"
"Prozac!" She laughed.
Our tutor laughed.
The class laughed.
My facade laughed too - but inside I was lethally cut.

It seemed that everyone in that classroom found the drug a joke - why? Is it the taboos of what it is associated to? What taking it means?
As everyone in that classroom laughed, all I could think about were the tears that I had shed taking the real deal only the year before. I felt that my pain was being sold out over those sherbet filled capsules.
Perhaps I was over-reacting a touch - but just thinking of that drug hurt as much as taking it did; even without the guffaws from the lab.
Why? That I do not know...
Because I'd taken the drug before?
Or because sometimes I think I still should?
Because it's prescribed, but never un-prescribed?
Or maybe, just maybe, it's because it still haunts me...