When I was twelve I wanted a lobotomy. There was something wrong with my brain. I researched psychology books and diagnosed myself with various disorders. Depression. Social anxiety. Bi-polar disorder.
    Sam's parents were psychiatrists. He'd tell me about the free samples of anti-depressants he was taking. The companies were always giving them free stuff, like pens and stress relievers. We all had a Paxil stress reliever, dubbed Paxilman. Our psychotic diagnoses came from this flat, yellow stress ball shaped into a man's head.

    Amanda really was on anti-depressants, unlike the rest of us who just wanted to be. She switched medications so often it was unknown whether she was depressed or suffering from withdrawal. Some days she'd come into Chemistry, her head of red-blonde curls bouncing as she sat in her chair. Other days she'd sneak in through the back.
    "They're trying to take me off Prozac. They want to try something else," she'd mumble. "You don't want to go through this."

    "Do you want some samples?" Sam asked. All I could picture was Amanda hunched over her notebook, attempting to hide her withdrawal. "Just let me know," he said. "I stole a bunch from my parents."

    When I attended college, I went to a counselor. I'd go in prepared with something else I'd dug up from my past, but he'd start somewhere completely different. I wanted to discuss the free samples and Sam and Amanda. I didn't give a damn about this random guy I had a crush on.
    "He seems to be on your mind," he would say.
    Of course he is, you continually bring him up. But I never said anything, never exploded into a psychotic frenzy.
    Paxilman stayed in my desk drawer amongst pens and Post-it notes. Whenever I hated something, I'd pull him out and squeeze his little head. The word Paxil expanded and shrunk in my hand.

Written: Fall 2005, revised Spring 2007