Story Six

When I was nineteen, my first marriage ended, and I felt as though my life was over. The future seemed bleak.

I moved in with a friend, Carly. She was in a similar situation. Her marriage, too, had recently ended. She had a little boy, about two years old, and she wanted a roommate, who liked kids, and who would be willing to babysit occasionally.

I enrolled in a secretarial course, while Carly found a sales clerk job at a department store.

We sometimes got Carly's aunt to babysit, and we'd go out to the bar. This is how I met Steven. Steven was of medium height, with curly blondish brown hair and brown eyes. He was one of the nicest guys I'd ever met, helpful, friendly and easy going. We dated a few times, and I saw other guys as well. I knew I wasn't ready for a serious relationship just yet.

Despite my friends, and school, the depression deepened. I had to force myself to get up for school in the morning. It was almost a physical pain I felt, as I struggled to get up, and face the day.

I went to a doctor, who prescribed Phenobarbital. Well, that's not a drug commonly used for depression, and some of the possible side effects are pretty bad. The depression, not surprisingly, worsened. I felt ashamed and embarrassed at my lethargy and sadness. I didn't tell anyone. Instead, I tried to hide my feelings. When I went back to the doctor, he renewed the prescription, without even bothering to talk with me.

One Friday, Carly took her little boy, and left town for a weekend stay at her parent's place. They lived in another city.

That left me alone with my thoughts. By Saturday night, I had cried so much, I was sure I couldn't cry anymore. I decided the pain was more than I could stand, and I swallowed all of the Phenobarbital from the bottle. I lay down on the sofa, and tried to sleep. A short time later, the doorbell rang. I ignored it. Whoever was at the door was very persistent, though. They continued to ring the doorbell, then to knock at the door. Finally, I made my way, very unsteadily, to the door, and threw it open. Steven stood there.

"What's going on?" he asked.
"Nothing much," I said, my voice thick and slow.
Steven stepped inside the apartment. He walked into the living room, and saw the empty pill bottle on the coffee table. He held it up to me, as I swayed before him.
"What's this bottle doing here?"
He had to rush to my side, then, because I nearly fell over.
"Did you take those pills?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. I felt so very, very tired.

Steven drove me to the hospital. I was there for several days, and put into group therapy. After I got out of the hospital, I had counseling sessions a couple of times a week. Over the next few weeks, the counselor helped me get over the sense of loss I had, since the breakup of my marriage. And she explained to me that Phenobarbital can cause depression, and even psychiatric disturbances...

Does Steven get a copy of the poem too? Choose 'next' to find out.