I was in chock. The doctor didn’t even mention my heart. I was in my apartment in Oernevej, looking at the list of psychiatrics, one of the names was circled, SK. My mother had read an article about him in a magazine, there was a picture. He looked friendly. I called and got an appointment the following month. I was in no hurry. I didn’t know, what was going on in my brain.
We slaved away at the company, but I had to quit the cafe. It was a relief only having one job, one place to put my energy, one focus. C and I ”celebrated” my newfound freedom with extra long days in the basement underneath the shop. Everything was gonna be alright. I had started taking the antidepressants and they would make me better, I was sure of it. I guess I saw it as a penicillin cure. I would take them for a while and everything would be good.
The day came, where I was going to see SK. I rode my bike from the basement early. I was sitting in the waiting room, preparing myself. I was unsure of how much to tell him. I wanted to make a good impression and I didn’t want him to think I was crazy. I was so nervous. I presented myself as if he was a banker, I needed to borrow a million from. How are you? He asked. I FELL LIKE HELL, I’M BROKEN! My brain was shouting. I’m okay, I heard myself say. I’m just a little weary. The tears were burning in my eyes. I wanted to get out of there. I grabbed the prescription and promised to come back the following week. I hadn’t mentioned the snails.
At the pharmacy, the lady asked if I had taken antipsychotics before. Antipsychotics!? What the hell was going on? I thought. You might get a little sleepy at first, she said. Okay, didn’t SK say something about me needing sleep? I bought them and went back to the basement. That night I took my first Zyprexa.