I made this account more than a year ago, and have never posted a word.
I created it when I was feeling bored and reflective, like I had a lot to say but no real motivation to say it. I thought that if there were things I might like to eventually discuss, then this might be the place to begin to discuss it.
’20 mg of fluoxetine’ was going to be the title of my first blogpost, but now it is 40mg and I wonder if the increase in dose has really given me anything else to say, but this is a small thing I wrote for my creative writing class, on the subject of pill-taking.
Fourty Miligrams of Fluoxetine
Fourty Miligrams swallowed easily in bed with the bitter inch of tea at the bottom of a cup. The tea bag is still slumped inside like a bag of soggy potatoes. For the first time in a few days I didn’t taste those pills clinging to my oesophagus all day. It was a superior cup of tea, earl grey bag left in. I can hear my mother’s voice saying ‘Filthy Habit.’
The colour of crocus’ is so sweet and buttery, they look like a Willy Wonka creation. It is a colour that only happens in nature, as if it were a colour exclusive to being alive. The softness of the petals makes the yellow deep and lustful, like sunshine, made up of movement and vitality. A gorgeous, sumptuous colour of rebirth after winter.
Fourty miligrams, taken with a cup of tea. Down easy. Very yellow.
When I see a snow drop I am reminded of a woman’s clitoris. To put an ‘a’ in front of the word ‘clitoris’ makes it sound suddenly alien, and disconcerting. As if it might have a mind of its own, which might be true of the male equivalent but I have never heard of a woman being lead entirely by her sexual organ. Snow drops are so delicate, intricate little white hoods, and somehow the way they tremble in the breeze makes me tingle. They are so vulnerable, on fine, lithe stems but ferociously open budded, like a cabaret girl.
The yellow of a crocus bud on the other hand is like the feeling of being kissed. It is a plump, bulbous colour, and unbearable speckle of softness against the grass. A colour only in nature, where else can you find it?
There are of course, lesser man-made versions. But the decadent yellow of surprise becomes a gloomy mustard, mustard with a dollop of mayonnaise mixed in. It is the colour of ready-meals, of old ladies string handbags, and the salty taste of tinned soup. The pills I take are this colour, half of them a muted green like a hospital gown. There I have it, the grass against the crocus colours, the essence of colour and life are locked away inside them. The promise of vibrant, fragile newness.
A discussion of colour is really something else entirely, I am watching this take shape. A commentary on something I love about the world, about the fantastic beauty of the unexpected, turned into my every day consumption – the diluted reality of who I am. A less alive colour, taken with a cup of tea.