green eggs and ham

The biggest problem with living in a small community is that everybody knows everybody else. Even if you don't know someone's name you know that when you see them at the pub they are one of the cashiers at your local grocery store.
Or when you take your kids to a birthday party, there's your doctor with her kids. You smile and you pretend that neither of you actually knows that you are suffering from a debilitating depression and just came into her office begging for mercy. Or new drugs. Or something. Some kind of help.
And maybe your doctor also has four kids. And there aren't that many families around with four kids. So you have that in common. So she understands that this life is hectic. She understands in some small way why you need a little chemical help.
And so you go in there fully expecting that you are going to give up drugs forever. That you are ready. That the pain you have experienced since starting to take medication has been as intense, or more so, than any mental anguish you have ever felt. That despite the horror stories of withdrawal it has to be better than what you are experiencing now.
And then you walk in. And you realize that, maybe, just maybe things aren't all that bad. That the past few days have been pretty good. That trying to make things better has actually helped. Playing with the kids at school has been exhilarating. Playing capture the potato, tag, skipping rope, building endless sandcastles and general energy busting fun. Racing until you are doubled over trying to catch your breath is one of the best kinds of therapy.
And so you don't ask. You refill your prescriptions for the next six months. Walk out clutching your paper bag, hoping for the best. Looking forward.