My Life As A Prescription Of Ritalin
                                                                           Lindsay L. 16, HRM     

 I was innocent once, when I was new - just as we all were. 
                                                          

I was born to make peoples' lives better but the more hands I've been passed through, the more damage I've done.

The harm creeps, unbidden, through the shadows of the night. I wanted to scream, to cry out and warn them - but by then, it's already too late.

I was first brought home to green grass and picket fences, soberly disguising what they later revealed: a failing marriage hidden behind a five-year-old who couldn't sit still.
 
That was fine - I could help, with listening to babysitters and concentrating in math class. Still, the more I saw, the less effective I felt.

Maybe if I could be shared, I could fix more!
 
So, in covert doses of a mother staying up late at night, sewing while her husband spent the time at a local motel. The housewife shared some of me with a friend, along with suspicions about her husband.

If only there was a little more of me to go around.
 
The friend took me home and downed me with wine, filling out endless paperwork over a T.V. turned up louder than the screams of her husband and children.
Hours after, when all is quiet, a single lamp stands sentry against the sound of the coming ambulance.

All I ever wanted to do was help. Infidelity and overdoses - I never meant for any of it to happen. Human hands are powerful in their choices. I should know - I've seen enough of them. But in the end, I lay abandoned on a counter, possessing the power to help or harm, but absolutely no control over which one it will be.