The chatter behind the tall wooden doors to the church fell silent. The organ began to play. I looked down at my white dress and then back up at my father motioning for me to grab a hold of his arm. Turning my head away from him I pick up my bouquet and feel around inside for the pills I had tucked away earlier that evening. Sweat pools on my hairline as I pretend to inhale the scent of my pale pink roses. Instead, my tongue grabs a hold of the small oval shaped pills as if I were eating popcorn out of an overflowing movie theatre bucket. I tilt my head back and allow the month's worth of medication to fight its way down my throat. I begin to cough. My father hands me a nearby bottle of water. An act of kindness he will soon regret. I swallow all 22 pills just as the oak doors slowly swing open. All faces turn to me. I pray I don't make it to the altar.