When I was younger, my mother had an entire drawer full of prescription medication in our kitchen. It was for her clinical depression, although I didn't know this at the time. I had never seen her take any of them, not one pill. I didn't question it, I was only four and knew that some medicines tasted nasty, like that prescription cough medicine that was supposed to taste like strawberries ("hey!" my younger self whispers harshly now, "it doesn't taste like strawberries at all.") I also knew that I certainly wouldn't want to take my medicine if it tasted nasty.
Ten years later, I did not want to take my medication. I wanted it to fester in the kitchen drawer with my mothers out-of-date boxes of Prozac. My mother told me I had to take it. I told her she was being a hypocrite because our medications are exactly the same, and we (are meant to) take them for the exact same reasons. She defended herself with half-formed excuses. But after a while, she opened up that overflowing kitchen drawer and pulled out the only in-date box she had. She then told me that if I took mine, she'll take hers - I didn't think she'd do it. She hadn't been doing it for over ten years - what would be different now? I asked, and her response was "you". I was surprised by this answer, but decided to humour her by taking my medicine for the first time in months. To my surprise, she then took hers for the first time in years.
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