Page 72 of Toxic Kiss

He raises an eyebrow.

“Do you experience auditory or visual hallucinations?”

“I wish I was right now,” I mumble, and he lifts a brow. “Not until the meds, but now…yes, sometimes.”

Silence stretches between us. His pen taps once, lightly, but it sounds like a boom in my head.

“Wait. So, you weren’t having hallucinations until the medication?”

“Correct,” I say, lapping the table. “And before you ask. There are no voices telling me to hurt myself or others. I’ve been over this. It’s like I’m walking down the hall and watching a cat that doesn’t exist run by. Oh, and sounds hurt my head.”

I avoid mentioning the situation where I heard Patrick talking to me. No need to add that to my ever thickening folder.

“Interesting.”

There is that word again.

“You shouldn’t be experiencing hallucinations. We need to look into why you were prescribed these meds and why they are worsening your initial symptoms. Your current medications are obviously not the solution.”

I really want to be snarky, but I am a good boy, and I keep my mouth shut for a change.

“I see here that you’re on mood stabilizers, antidepressants, anti-inflammatories, sleeping medication, ulcer medication, and NSAIDs. That is quite a lot.”

“Stevens, no offense, but I’m a rockstar. That’s called Tuesday.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

“Cyrus, I want to help you. But just because I have your file doesn’t mean I know or understand everything you’ve been through. I want to hear your side and understand what you are going through. So, I need you to be honest with me.”

Honesty is what got me here, but I don’t say that either.

“You want honesty? Okay…I’ll give you honesty. I’m emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted. My head feels like it’s full of broken glass. My joints are on fire all the time. I can’t handle the lights without my eyes killing me and giving me a migraine. The stupid shaking has gotten worse. I’m seeing shit that isn’t there. I’m so fucking tired all the time. I fight to stay awake during the day, but then I can’t sleep at night. And I’m so very fucking sick of everyone telling me that I’m broken, or I’ve fallen off the wagon, or I’m being dramatic. I want to scream.”

I hold my arms out to the side, pleading with him to see me.

“Every time someone asks me if I’m okay, I want to punch them in the face, and no…” I point at him. “Not because a voice is telling me to.”

The stress of explaining myself over and over is worse than banging my head against a wall.

“I’m tired, doctor. I’m tired of no one believing me when I know something is not right. I’m tired of one person putting me on this pill, then that pill, and so on, and nothing helps. Most of all, I’m tired that no one seems to give a fuck as long as they can get me out the door and get paid. That honest enough for you?”

He uses his pen to point at the chair, and I reluctantly walk over. My body is trembling, but from the turbulence of emotions that are rattling around inside me.

“Cyrus, I want to help you.” I glare at him, and he raises his hands. “I don’t mean that condescendingly, I really do. It could be as simple as the wrong medication combo for you, or you could be right, and it is something else entirely.”

I sit up a little straighter. He is the first person to say that.

Doctor Avery would be all too happy to have me in rehab twice and say I’m just troubled. He was the one who started the pharmaceutical shopping list I’m taking. He is the one who put me on antidepressants and a mood stabilizer.

Doctor Lynn gave me pain meds and my ulcer medication because my joints felt like they were on fire, and my head had a jackhammer in it, like something gnawing at the inside of my stomach. She said to call in two weeks to see how I was feeling.

Then, of course, Dr. Shaffer said I have early stages of schizophrenia and added another medication to the list.

“You mean that?”

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean.”

“You’ll look into this being something else?”