In the words of Elizabeth Wurtzel, "Back, back, back. How fucking far back do you go?" Now that is the question. How far back do you go until you uncover the truth of your very being? How many layers of sugar-coated lies must you scrape off the surface until you discover, not only when, but how and what drove you to such a dark, angry, and maybe even insane standpoint in your life? Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions pay shrinks to do it for them everyday. And when it's all done and over with, they stuff a piece of white paper with illegible hand-writing on it to deliver to the pharmacy. That prescription might as well be your own death certificate. Doctors call it medicine; medicine to turn that frown upside-down. I call them placebos. Yes, these drugs do work, in a sense. They make you calm, I guess. You can think straight and not want to go throw yourself in front of traffic, but, and yes, to every salvation, there is a catch, the drugs do not fix the problem. The drugs do not erase the memories, or fix the problems they caused. They only mask them. Kind of like a drug addict who took some detox before a drug test. The detox made him pass his piss test, but you can just look at the guy and know that he's a junkie. The drugs make us presentable for a society that does not want to deal with you and your problems. So, instead of helping us, the drugs help them. The public eye that's in denial.
