Usually, I take ten pills per night: three sets of antipsyhcotics, a big set of prozac, and another pill, the same one they use to treat parkinson's disease, to fight the side effects of the antipsychotics. I hate them all. I also have a prescription for tranquilizers to help me sleep. The pills wear me down. I want to stop, but I know that can never happen. Every day, I lose little bits of myself to the disease and to the treatments. Medication isn't the answer, but it's the only weapon I have.
I roll into the battlefields of midnight with ten bullets. I use them against the forces that block my slumber. Sleep is why I fight. I put holes in the shadow lancers, and use the sounds of the struggle to reckon with the choir. As the shadows drop, and the choir fades in and out of consciousness, I make my move to sleep. I don't remember my dreams; that's a victory. Sometimes I wake up screaming, but I never remember why.
Often, the terrors of my waking hours stalk me. My usual escape is sleep. Tonight, I need more bullets; I roll with twelve.