4:00 AM. I should be asleep, but the idea doesn’t interest me. I should take a Clonazepam, but I won’t. I take its “as needed” instructions too seriously, and I have a strict definition of “need.” If I can make it through the day without it, I want to try.

Of course, that’s strictly going against doctor’s orders. She said she wanted me to taking a full milligram a day, every day, as long as I could stay awake on that much. But the minimum, she insisted, must be .5 mg. I can divide it up any way I want, but not taking it is not a choice.

So, I usually take .5 at night and spread two doses of .25 throughout the day. Today, I only took the .5. That was about twenty hours ago. I just hate medication. I wish I didn’t have to take any of it.

Ugh. I’m such a fool. I’m like a diabetic who won’t take her insulin, except instead of dying, I collapse.

I’m going to bed as soon as I post this, and I’m taking the .5 mg. This behavior, born of fear, is my enemy, an agent of the vicious depression that’s gripped my mind and won’t let go. The Clonazepam will circumvent all that, knock me out, and—most importantly—I won’t dream. That’s the good part. That’s the part I forgot until just now. I won’t dream. Oh, God! There’s nothing to be afraid of tonight! I’ll take the pill, and tomorrow, when I’ve slept, I’ll see how important it is to take my medication.

Or not, but I can’t deny, there’s something to be said for a pill.

Does my attitude and my need make me a pill-popper or a survivalist? I can’t tell. Can you?