It has been proved to me that at times, breathing is an instinctual reaction that is much too unfamiliar to my body. When my head throbs with such vigor that bile rises to my throat and tears squeeze out from my tightly clenched eyes, I know that "things", as they call them, are not going well. My chest is too tight to let in air, and my lungs are too tired to breathe. The little white bottle sitting ready in my backpack looks like a little vile of savior. But as the pills fall into my hand, I know that I have reverted back to what was once insanity. I can remember the days when fifty tablets was nothing, but one hundred could do the trick. I remember stuffing them all into my mouth, and swallowing-swallowing them whole. To put the extra back in the bottle just seems so ridiculous and the pencil in my hand looks so nice and pointy and would feel wonderful ripping through my skin.

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