Life can be (a) dream

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March 12, 2026 - The Panacea - Part One

I would first like to start with a disclaimer: Sammy & Vanny was supposed to have two more parts. I got insecure, and I wasn't able to finish it. I am hoping the same doesn't happen to this story. Part two just needs revising, part three is 50% done, and part four is fully planned. I want to finish this by the end of the month. This is my promise to myself!

An unhappy person can always tell you why they're unhappy. They're unhappy after they spilled their coffee in the morning, and they're stressed because their mother is sick and in the hospital, and they're annoyed after they got into a spat at work. An unhappy person will almost never admit that they don't know the cause of their unhappiness. Else, they would have to understand why spilling their coffee today made them sad, but didn't seem to bother them the day before. Admitting that they don't know would surely drive them mad. It is far more painless to prescribe a random event of the day as the cause of today's unhappiness, and then hold it above the head as a banner, crying to everyone and anyone that cares to listen. This is why they're sad, and that is why they've gotten nothing done today, and, indeed, absolutely nothing can be done about it.

Such is the story that Isaac heard at least a dozen times a day. He was a pharmacist trained on antibiotics, on diuretics, on analgesics, on supplements, and on almost all basic diagnoses that could simply be treated through a pharmacist's prescription without bothering a doctor, and yet almost all of his prescriptions were for a single medication that had been released just three years prior. It went by the name of Dexalof. It was a modern age miracle antidepressant that was initially only meant for the recent rise of those who suffered from episodic depression, who found themselves slumped over at random for hours at a time. Within thirty minutes, Dexalof boosted the person's mood and energy for approximately two to four hours, with almost none of the side effects of previous antidepressants. Patients rarely complained of their mood flattening into numbness, or of libido problems, or even of weight gain.

Episodic depression was found to be invented from a series of sham studies, and was removed as a possible diagnosis from the DSM-6-TR, which was published only four months after the public release of Dexalof. However, in those four months, so many patients had found relief in Dexalof that the drug continued to be prescribed in mass.

Isaac was never sad, so he never felt a need to take Dexalof. He was healthy, and thought himself to be more than capable of dealing with what came his way. He didn't go so far as to call himself especially intelligent, but he was glad that he had a naturally studious nature. Both of his parents were still healthy. His work was fulfilling, and he had joy from helping his patients be happy and healthy. Isaac's patients always came to him in a state of despair, and he almost always sent them off with some sort of hope. But now, he wondered if it was really hope. That day, his first patient requested Dexalof after her new boss took to yelling at her during lunch breaks. His second patient of the day asked for his prescription to be renewed after his divorce proceedings stretched far beyond what he expected. Isaac's next two dozen patients had similar stories. The only non-Dexalof prescription he had filled so far that day was an antibiotic after a quick throat swab revealed a case of Strep throat that hadn't been properly treated for two weeks.

He started keeping a simple sheet of paper on the corner of his desk some time ago. He had drawn 60 boxes, each labeled with the date and holding a number of tallies. Each time he filled or renewed a Dexalof prescription, he made a tally on that date. On this day, he had reached 35 tallies, well exceeding any previous record. So, when the mother of his last patient that day asked for a first time Dexalof prescription, he was filled with a new and strange feeling that he didn't understand. He peeked into the waiting area before handing her the typical forms. It wasn't difficult to tell who her daughter was. She pointed her head straight down at the floor, covering most of it with a black hoodie. She didn't look up even when her mother called out to ask her to list all of the symptoms she felt, and so the mom ran to her, placed the clipboard on her lap, and made her tick the right boxes. The filled form came back to his desk five minutes later.

With almost all of his patients, he simply approved and filled the prescription after glancing at their forms and scanning them digitally for safekeeping. At his own discretion, though, he could pull patients into the nearby examination room to get a clearer picture of their symptoms and needs. He called to the mother, and asked her permission to pull her daughter into an examination room. She agreed with a look of mild confusion on her face, which Isaac only barely registered as he motioned at his patient to follow him into the room. He gently closed the door behind him, and noticed that she seemed to be shaking. Her shaking caused her sweater hood to drop down, revealing a long mass of tangled, matted hair. She pulled it back up in a fright while he motioned at her to sit down. She did, gripping the sides of the chair enough to turn her knuckles white.

"Your name is Naomi, correct? I just wanted to ask you a few extra questions first." She nodded, but didn't speak back. "You aren't in trouble," he said, almost as an afterthought. This seemed to relax Naomi some, and she loosened her grip on the chair.

"Can I ask you to elaborate on the symptoms that brought you in? Your form says that you've been withdrawing from others and that you've felt hopeless frequently lately. What does that look like for you?"

"I... I... when I get home, I can't leave bed at all... and I don't really do anything besides sleep. I just don't feel like there's anything for me to do."

"Are you still in school?"

She nodded.

"Can you tell me more about that?"

"Yes... I'm in my junior year, and I don't really have friends, since I just moved, and I don't have bad grades, but it would be better if I could focus on my homework... I only turn in whatever I can get done during my lunch period," she said. She spoke in a slow voice that made it unclear when she was done speaking.

"Are you going to school every day?"

"Not very. If my mom isn't awake, I just hide in the closet until she wakes up and leaves for work. Then she doesn't know at all."

"How long have you been dealing with this?"

"It's been like this for about a year now..."

"Any suicidal thoughts or plans?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No. Well, wait, ah! Not that I'm not sure. I've not, not for a week at least. I've been better lately, and that's why my mom was even able to convince me to come here."

"Did anything specific make you better?"

"My mom gave me her own meds last week, and I felt okay then. That's why she wanted me to come here..."

Isaac had to stifle most of his reaction, but couldn't help but startle backwards by half an inch.

"Naomi... I see. I have to ask you to not take your mom's or even anyone's medication again. That was extremely dangerous." Her face filled with terror. Isaac couldn't bear to torture her with an explanation of why what she did was so wrong, and judged her terror to be enough to not do it again. He took out a pad of paper from a drawer, and wrote a few lines. "I have something that I think might help you more. These are mental health practitioners that would know more about your symptoms. All of these should be able to see you for an appointment by the end of this week. I'll explain everything here to your mother as well."

"I see... Okay."

Isaac was surprised by her near lack of reaction. She didn't seem particularly happy about this. He thought on it as she adjusted herself, and realized that he would be just as dazed in her situation. She had used all of the energy she had to come here. She was promised a solution, and had come for nothing else except that exact solution. And now, it was ripped straight out of her hands, and she was even being made to gather her energy again to go to a new doctor. "Naomi, I am sorry to make this more complicated for you. I just want you to truly feel better. I don't think Dexalof will fix you for more than a week."

She didn't acknowledge what he said at all, and asked if she could leave now. He nodded, and led her out of the room while thanking her for her honesty. "I'll explain this to your mom quickly, and you'll be on your way."

He didn't chat with her mother for more than two minutes. Isaac told her about the referral and explained that she can't share her medication with Naomi, but she only frowned and nodded throughout their conversation. She left with Naomi soon after, and Isaac was left to himself to get ready to go home.

As he packed his bag, he thought of Naomi's luck. Dexalof wouldn't do her any good at all. How lucky was she for Dexalof to not backfire on her? She was almost certainly clinically depressed. He had read just last week of the preliminary results of a new study. They had found that a depressed patient taking Dexalof had over tenfold the chance of attempting suicide as a depressed patient not taking any sort of medication at all. This far exceeded the suicide attempt rate of typical antidepressants or of even untreated patients, and the researchers didn't seem to understand why this was at all. The study was currently being beaten into the ground by hundreds of other medical researchers, accusing them of everything from faking their data, poor random sampling techniques, and p-hacking, but Isaac couldn't find any grounds for their attacks.

He blinked, and realized that he had already left and started the walk to his apartment. "How strange," he said to himself. "This is the third time this week that I've lost track of myself like that." The thought passed away, and was replaced with idle speculation of how his own mother would react to a child suffering from Naomi's situation. He blinked again, and saw that he was now almost home. "Oh, really, why can't I stay in the world anymore?" He thought that he should try to fight against this new tendency of his, and forced himself to sit down on the nearest bench and observe the city. Within seconds, a man wearing a full suit sprinted by him and grazed Isaac's legs. The running man wiped sweat from his brow as Isaac recovered from the startle. On the bench across from him, a son and father were seated, eating ice cream as fast as they could. Blue and white busses sped by, only slowing when pedestrians dashed in front of them to cross the road.

He found it almost impossible to relax under these circumstances. Then, to further ruin his rest, he was startled by a sudden yelling monologue that seemed to channel itself directly into his left ear. In his frustration, he started following the yelling, and found that that it was so loud only because a man had set up a speaker that pointed directly at where Isaac was sitting. The man had made a bus stop into his own personal protesting place.

It was not a formalized protest. It was not even clear what he was protesting for, seeing as he didn't bother to make a sign. The man was short and gray, and dressed himself up with a long tan coat with a collar. He had a barely-ironed navy shirt, hair that curled into itself, and a clip on microphone with a cord that led to a speaker that was as tall as his hip. Isaac found another bench that let him watch the man without being in his direct eyesight, and listened to his speech:

"And, for those who say God is not real because misery is alive and miracles are far and few between, they don't seem to understand: if you were our God, what would you reward us for? What makes us worthy of miracles when we steal from our neighbors, and when we go to the bar to sin every Friday? Your skirt, yes, miss, you in the red, your skirt, is worn to tempt men into lust, and you very well know that." The woman that he had pointed at ran into the next street as fast as she could, not saying a single word back in response. "Oh, how disgusting," he continued, not acknowledging her departure. "What horrible hedonists have we become?"

He was interrupted by a younger man walking up to him. The protester jumped back, not having noticed that the younger man had walked in his direction until he was almost on top of him, and paused his speech entirely. The young man stopped just three feet in front of him, and he responded by bumbling through a new speech about the younger generation's impoliteness and crudeness. About two sentences in, he got annoyed with this new speech, narrowed his eyes, and began his own speech:

"Don't you know a damn thing about our situation? What are you blaming us for? Tell me the last time you've had a real conversation, and tell me the last time you did something that wasn't protesting, and tell me what I should even do! If you're calling us hedonistic, why can't you help us instead of complaining so much?"

His response back was quick. "You're the exact character I hate most from this new generation. Look at how you twist everything into God's fault! Why? Because if you blamed yourself, you might realize that there was something to change! That not everything is the fault of society--"

"Old man, you didn't answer my question. What am I supposed to do? There's nothing to do in this whole shithole town except looking at the Net! What's even the point? And don't tell me I'm just looking for my hedonistic sense of reward when all the old greats knew that their work would be appreciated by at least a single person!"

Isaac got tired of their arguing, and wandered off. He was only two minutes away from his apartment. He opened the front door, climbed up the eight stories of stairs to his apartment, and slammed the door shut. He took a large inhale, and realized that he must have been holding his breath most of the way up the stairs. He sat on the couch with his coat and boots still on for three minutes, breathing and recovering, before finally getting out of his winter clothing and setting the heat five degrees higher than it was. He crawled under a blanket on the couch while he waited for the heater to warm up.

He thought about turning on the TV, but stopped himself. He thought about pulling out a book on the nearby table, but stopped himself from that too. He wondered if he should perhaps go out to get something to eat and save himself the trouble of cooking so late at night, but realized that he was just looking for a way to procrastinate, and finally dragged himself over to an object in the corner of his living room. It was almost as tall as him, and was covered in a thin brown blanket that had been carefully balanced on top.

Isaac grabbed the blanket with both hands, but didn't pull it off. He sighed, put the blanket back down, closed the window blinds, and grabbed the blanket again, only to still not be able to pull it off. He put on music, drank two glasses of water, and walked in circles around his apartment for five minutes, before he finally got sick of himself and pulled off the blanket almost violently and tossed it onto the floor.

The blanket was covering an easel and canvas. The easel was a gift from a cousin of his, and it was made and put together from scratch. The wood was unfinished, and he even had scraped himself with it in the past, but he could never bring himself to buy another one. And the canvas, that canvas that he worked so hard to hide from himself! It was the only thing he had been able to bring himself to work on in the past two years, and it would certainly be the best of all of his works if he could bring himself to finish it. But finishing a painting filled him with fear because he knew he could not. The last work he had done before this was a close up of the flowers at his sister's funeral, with the three wilting flowers in front as the focal point. When he was only minutes away from being done, he flicked a glob of purple paint that left streaks and dots all over his flowers. No amount of scraping and redrawing left the flowers in an acceptable state, and he had finally thrown out the canvas with the wilting flowers themselves.

And so, of course, Isaac didn't know how to finish this new work, because Isaac hadn't finished anything since then or even for the whole year before. The ability to finish a work is a separate skill, he reasoned, and it was one that he had absolutely no practice in. His guilt stopped him from even giving the painting more than three glances. He saw a flash of purple, and a sea of brown and yellow, and the twinkle of pink and red on a black box, and nothing more.

Seeing his miserable situation and his inability to finish, he simply loosely tossed the blanket over the canvas, tugged at the corners to make sure it was fully hidden, and went to his bedroom for the rest of the night.