Paranoia Kept Inside a Box.

I searched frantically through my mothers medical boxes.
I threw bottles of my mothers pills to the floor and pushed aside books that showed pictures
of deaths-doorstep patients.
My heart jumped when I saw the fabric of the pink and white bag hidden among pens and papers
that had prescriptions scribbled illegibly on them.
I pulled open the strings of the bag and dug my hands inside, uncovering the stethoscope.
Against my chest I listened closely for irregular heart beats.
"The worst case scenario is death." I sat with my eyes closed trying to hold back tears,
trying to ignore the paranoia poisoning my brain.
My heart beat hard, but steady.
Every beat was a cry to stop smoking, a cry to stop dry heaving and eating high-calorie, artery
clogging junk food.
I was welcomed back to reality with the aftermath of my downward spiral into paranoia.
Pills and papers lay around my mothers room, the lids of boxes had been torn open and thrown
in moments of panic,
and stationery took up any extra carpet space. The pink and white bag
had been thrown anxiously across the room.
"Hello?" I heard my mother come in the front door, and I scooped the stethoscope and
other medical instruments back into the box that my paranoia was kept in.
As I closed the door I looked back through the crack,
looking at the grey box that lay on the shelf.
My paranoia was contained. For now.

I watched the rain fall down from the sky, making small ripples in the puddles
in my back yard.
I lay my head against the window pane, stressed, with my hand on my chest.
I needed help.
And I had begun to realize that I couldn’t do it alone anymore.
I needed help.