Dormitory Eighth Level: Lunar Station, June 2035

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Space Corps Academy Training Center on Jupiter Station.  Please report for duty at the Sagan Cycler in two weeks' time.

Sincerely,
Commander Cruiser

Jupiter Station Psychiatric Facility: October 2036

My new reality.  Doctors and nurses.  Needles and deceptions, delusions and manipulations.  Anything to get medication to stop the sirens.  ANYTHING!

How did I, the happiest, most excitable cadet in the Fleet, get to this point?

That was easy.  I'll list the facts.  Actually, no I won't, I'm too exhausted.  They're in my chart.  Go look up my whole history later if you want for your bedtime reading.  Right now, there are more pressing matters, like if I can actually finish this ginormous amount of calories they want me to consume this morning.

"You need to eat," a compassionate voice beside me says.  He's trying, he really is.

"I don't want it." I push the food away. My stomach turns over at the thought: disgusting.

I got here last night.  When will they start putting meds into me? What will those drugs do? Will they work or make me feel worse? Could I possibly feel any worse? Excitement and apathy and fear all mix together; this is totally unknown territory.

"How are we feeling today?"

"Depressed."

There is a window in this room that looks out over magnificent Jupiter, but I don't notice.

I slump in the chair.  Doctor woke me from a nap.  I've been dreading and wishing for this moment for months.  Actually avoiding it since I got here; that means the road to leaving for the scary unknown has opened.

"When did you start feeling this way?"

"July."

"How's your sleep?"

 "Fourteen hours."

"How's your apet-tite?" He's Asian and I can barely understand him.  Pressure not helping.

"Not great.  Eating very little."

"Let's see if you can remember these three terms: James brown, John Smith, San Francisco golden Gate Bridge."

It is hard, but I repeat back with no trouble. this disease has not taken my best quality  away! Never mind that he said one of my favorite places! Never mind also that I empathized with the people who ended their lives below it... 

"Can you count backwards from 100 by sevens?" Back to the scary examiner. He's probing now. The questions are getting tricky.

"One hundred...  ninety-three...  eighty-something..." I falter.  I am failing miserably.  I hate failing!

"I notice you are having trouble answering.  Is that because of  depression or something else?"

"I don't know." Barely audible. As my heart rate goes up, but I keep that in the chest where it belongs, boom boom. An admission.  I am smart; I never have trouble communicating or expressing! What the hell is up?

"I see." Scribble, scribble, click, click.

"Let's start you on  Mirtazipine, or Remeron.  It will help you get some good sleep here on the unit, and improve your eating.  Is that agreeable?"

My heart leaps for the first time in weeks.  An antidepressant, magic! "Yes!" The door has opened a crack to let sunlight filter through...

"Good.  You are free to go."

That afternoon, I take my first pill.  That evening, I gorge myself on every kilocalorie they provide.  It is not exactly happy, but it is not empty...  it will suffice.


Next day. different doctor. This one is a white guy; I hate to stereotype, but I feel instantly more comfortable and at ease. I sit up straight in the chair.

"How are you feeling today?"

"A little better. I'm eating again! I think that pill is starting to work."

"Good. Your body seems to be tolerating the medication. You also seem to be communicating better."

I actually smile.