The moment the medicine starts working often passes unremarked: you're doing this or that, and all of a sudden you notice that you don't feel quite so shitty, without having noticed exactly when you became normal.
The moment that the medicine stops working, however, there is a sharp dividing line. One minute you are feeling almost yourself, maybe a little out of it, and the next the world goes all swimmy, and you're breathing half-underwater, a weight like a wet bag of sand on your chest, and the music in the IKEA where you were, just a moment ago, enjoying yourself and figuring out where those Stolmen Posts can fit in your bedroom, turns into hateful, mocking ditties sung by vicious little demons.
Katie must have seen me turn a little pale, says, "Okay, you're doing really well."
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