My Pill Holder

Maria Velasco

Maria Velasco is a London-based researcher and multidisciplinary artist whose work centres on archives, ephemera, and the dynamics of colonisation, what gets preserved, what gets discarded, and who gets to tell the story. Her creative practice extends these questions into more personal territory, exploring chronic illness, bodily autonomy, and the quiet ways we learn to carry what others cannot see. “My Pill Holder” is her first published contribution. She writes in English and Spanish.

My Pill Holder

Monday, wake up. Reach for the glass of water on the bedside table. Take the pill. Start the day. Tuesday, wake up. Go back to sleep. You are not really feeling it. Wednesday, wake up, jump right into the shower, you are late for something. Keep telling yourself: don’t forget to take the pill once you’re out. Thursday, wake up, get distracted. Shit! Midday. You forgot about it. Friday, wake up, the missing day makes you uncomfortable. Refill the box. Saturday, wake up, you must wait two hours before eating, but your boyfriend already made breakfast. Feel guilty. Eat anyway. Sunday, wake up, you forgot the water glass last night. Take it without water. You feel the dryness in your mouth.

The week starts again. Monday, wake up, take it. You remember that concerned tone of your mother ten years ago, telling you she is going to take you to the doctor because that weight gain is not “normal”. You remember that same doctor calling you a liar about your exercise routines, asking if you eat a little snack after the gym, after all, the gym is next to the bakery. The interrogation doesn’t end. You hold the tears in your eyes. He looks at your mother, not even at you, and says: “I would suggest you lock the pantry at night.”

Tuesday, take it. You remember how your body felt when you went to see that other doctor, the one your mum had begged you to visit because he might have a different opinion. You remember how he didn’t believe any of the exercise or diet you described, but just for good measure: “we’re going to do some blood tests.” You still remember when the results came back and you realised there was indeed something wrong with you. It was not your fault.

Wednesday, this time you think about how you ended up here. When did you start taking the pills? It seems so long ago. The doctor’s “easy” suggestion: this pill will solve all your problems. The reality: one pill turned into four. One so you don’t feel hunger, one to control your sugar, one to regulate your period, and another for your thyroid. Take one at this hour, take this one with lunch. Make sure you take them at the same time every day. You’re not allowed to eat when taking this one. So many rules! You remember how your mum would come an hour before you had to wake up for school, pill and glass of water in hand. It became the way you woke up, from that day on.

Thursday, midday, your mum calls. Asks if you’ve been taking your medicine. “You always forget.” This time you remember how the pill holder became engraved in your life (well, not this one. The one you’re currently using you bought at an airport after leaving the previous one behind at some accommodation). The first one was the rainbow-looking one your mum bought you: each day of the week, four different compartments, so you wouldn’t forget which pill to take at which time. It looked like a notebook with leather covers, exactly like something you’d carry to school. Inside: just pills. A massive pillbox to organise that messy sixteen-year-old life. Your mum still suggests you’re always going to forget to take them. She is right. You still do.

Friday, you take the pill holder. This time, you remember how much you hated this little object. How it was just a reminder that your body was not working the way it was supposed to. You kept asking yourself: why? Why me? Your sister was perfectly healthy. You, on the other hand, had a doctor’s appointment every month. It hurts like salt in a wound to remember how much shame you felt. How you would hide the pills you had to take at noon so no classmates would see. You sometimes still cry about the time your very close friend said: “Oh, you take pills? In my family we deal with these things the natural way, maybe I can suggest some oils, and maybe a bit more exercise.” The thing was, you were already over-exercising and under-eating, trying to lose a weight that was supposed to fix everything else. It didn’t. And you hold back tears now, thinking of that rainbow pillbox you threw away because it drew too much attention, and how you made your mum buy you the tiniest black pill holder instead, so nobody would see it. But that tiny one was confusing; the pills were very similar in size and colour. Complicate your life so strangers won’t look at you. No one must know there’s something wrong with you.

Saturday, take it. Looking at it, you have actually grown to like this pill holder, though you can’t quite pinpoint when that started to happen. Slowly, over time, things did improve. Four pills became two. The two you still take, you’ll take forever. You think it has something to do with the fact that you started to like yourself, you changed friend groups, and they never judged you; they would actually remind you to take it. You started to like your body after a very long time. You found a good doctor and ended that toxic relationship with the old one. And you realised other people go through things too, and that’s okay, it’s just a pill. It doesn’t mean your body isn’t working. It just means your body needs an extra push. You remember starting to talk to yourself more kindly. You still refuse to spend £30 on a really pretty pill holder, though. You take it with you everywhere now. Monday through Monday, every day, every week, for almost ten years. This little object has become a strange kind of companion.

Sunday, oh god I forgot again!