"Oh, Dib, it's bad enough that we find you off of your medication but breaking open doors? Why? You're not trying to ingest cleaning fluid, are you?" a doctor asks me.
His certificate on the wall says Doctor Farnsworth. He's not my usual doctor, but then again I never seem to get the same one more than a few times.
"No," I reply.
Dr. Farnsworth presses his gloved fingers against my bruised skin. He acts like he's looking for something. His fingers travel to my back.
"Have you been eating?" he asks.
Raising an eyebrow, I say, "Yes. Why?"
"You look thinner than when I last saw you. And your new weight backs that up."
He pauses for a moment. Walking over to a counter, he picks up a clipboard. His pen scribbles across the paper. I continue sitting on the examination table shirtless. I shiver. My shirt lies next to me. Glancing over at it, I pick it up and hold it over my chest.
The doctor finally continues, "All right, you're going to be monitored when you eat from now on and I'm setting up an appointment with your therapist for you. This self-destructive behavior of yours is very concerning."
He's not serious, is he? I bet he thinks I'm suicidal. That's just great. I'm lucky he didn't put me on suicide watch.
"Self-destructive? I'm not trying to hurt myself. These stupid pills are hurting me. I can't think or see straight with them," I shoot.
He gestures to my glasses.
"Try taking your glasses off when you're on your medication. That should help. As for thinking straight, you'd be able to if you gave your body a chance to get used to them. By skipping doses you never get accustomed to it."
He hands me a cup with three varying shapes and colors of pills. I stare at them.
"Take them," he says sternly.
Reluctantly, I grab the paper cup. I plop them into my mouth. He glares at me until I swallow.
"That wasn't so bad now, was it? Now run along and stop knocking down doors," he instructs.
I pull my shirt on and happily leave.