Today was something, I guess.

Woke up at a bright and early 7:30 am to make a dermatologist appointment, grabbed some breakfast, and headed over there. I know it's important to visit the doctor every now and then, but I hate it. There's always this weird smell in the office, but not a scent. It doesn't smell like clean, but sterile. It's the same as metal surgical tools. Cold. Calculated. To me, it's the smell of fear. It was there when they had to hold me down to stick a swab in the back of my throat. It was there when the optician burned my eyes with some vile chemicals. It was there when I or loved ones were in pain. No matter what building or type of office I go to, that same scent is there. it's a reminder that there's no emotion in these places. Everything is quantized so it can be logically evaluated and compared to numbers. It's just this feeling of being inside of a machine; you're in this cold, metallic box awaiting for your fate to be calculated.

After some paper work, a friendly nurse leads me back to a little neutral-colored room. I'm met by a puke green chair in the corner, a puke green bed as a center piece, and a light gray counter and cabinets that seem to fade into the rest of the room. The room looks like the designer put in in Photoshop, then dragged the saturation slider all the way down. The only thing that stuck out to me was the red box hanging on the wall with a collection of needles in it and a giant "BIOHAZARD" sign plastered on its midsection. The nurse asked me a few generic questions, like "What are you here for?" and "Is this your first time here?" She haphazardly scribbled a few words down on her notepad, told me that the doctor would be here in a few minutes, and left to see her next patient. I had the joy of sitting in that small room, looking at the bland decor that surrounded me. I could have read one of the few magazines that seem to be the same outdated ones as every medical facility, but there was something calming about the serenity of my surroundings.

Eventually, the doctor came in, exchanged a few pleasantries, and asked me a couple questions. She put her hands on the sides of my face and swiveled it around, giving a few "mhm"s as evaluated the damage. She tipped down my collar and peeked at my chest, then lifted up the back of my shirt with her cold, rubber hands, taking a good look at the blemishes that collected on my body. Without doing much more, she asked me what I was doing before, then immediately started writing down a perscription on a piece of paper. I knew it, I was going to be put on some kind of drug. She talked about the medication a bit, said that a nurse would be by for a blood sample, then left.

A few minutes later, the same nurse that led me in came back in. She walked back to the room and opened the wall to grab a bright orange band and a strange looking needle. She asked me which arm I preferred, I replied that I didn't care, then she grabbed my right arm and started looking around. I guess it wasn't satisfactory for her, so she asked for my left and started looking around my elbow crease for a little blue line. She complimented me on my cleanliness, because, in her words, most guys that come in don't smell too great. Eventually, she found what she was looking for, and grabbed a needle from the metallic, wheeled table at the side. She tied the band around the top of my arm, pinched me with the needle, then slowly unraveled the ribbon.

When the needle left my skin, a feeling of illness took over my body. It was like she sucked the life out of me when that blood went into the vial. She told me to lie down and left for a glass of water. As I was sipping the water, we went over some paperwork, and she assured me that I would feel better soon, and I could go when I started feeling better. Eventually, reality came back to me, so I got up to leave. I got into the hallway, and my mother started filling out some paper work. As we were standing there, I started getting weak. My vision started blacking out. My ears started ringing. I quickly whispered "I'm going to sit down" and rushed to the closest chair. I felt like all of my blood was taken out, I was hung upside down, then someone started filling me back up through my feet. My heart was racing. I was sweating as if I just ran a marathon. My breathing was short and quick. I felt like I wasn't going to leave that chair alive. A nurse noticed, and left to get me more water and a snack. As I tried to collect my senses, my mom fanned me and told me that I was going to be fine. The nurse came back with a wet paper towel, a drink, and some crackers. "Put this on your head."

The next few moments were pure agony. I wasn't in any pain - I just felt like my life left my body. All my strength and liveliness just voided itself from me as I sat there begging for the sweet embrace of death. I pleaded, "When is this going to end?" Luckily, a few minutes later, the sickness drained from me. I was reunited with my soul, and had the strength to leave.

Now, I'm just sitting here on my computer and feeling a bit scared. There's a book and countless labels on the drugs warning me about all of the possible side effects. They really like to emphasize the whole depression part of the equation. It tells me to stop taking them if I feel worthless, want to die, or have erratic sleep patterns. The thing is, I already have that; so how am I supposed to tell what is just me and what is the medicine? I probably shouldn't be on it, but it's no big deal for me. I've been fighting my demons for years - another 6 months is a cake walk for me. Besides, I'll come out the other end feeling a lot better about myself. Maybe that will be enough.