“I don’t care if they eat me alive / I’ve got better things to do than survive”
- Ani DiFranco, “Swandive”
I have seen a number of psychiatrists, and the current one is fine, though she doesn’t engage me. I’m seeing, like, the dozenth therapist on this journey to recover my mind. He’s a decent enough fellow, but he doesn’t engage me particularly, either. The diagnosis between these two is depression. So they’re trying another med; I’m hoping for a psychopharmaceutical miracle. I’ve been on this new one about a week, and frankly I’m not sure how I feel. Confusion, that’s apparently what’s happening.
Today is Jeremy’s birthday, and I’ll be meeting up with him and the horrible fellow he’s seeing. Perhaps I’m jealous, perhaps I just see this terrible fellow for the awful fellow he is – either way this should be a lovely time.
We’re at the Jeannie Johnston, a bar at the end of St. Rose – my street. It’s a divey/pubby sort of place, and I sometimes come here to get hammered late at night. Everything seems off. Maybe it’s being near the horrible/terrible/awful fellow, who has with him a friend named Blaze, who is just the sort of person I would expect to be the horrible/terrible/awful fellow’s friend. I’m drinking quite a lot, which isn’t that unusual, but I don’t feel drunk; I’d like very much to be drunk if I’m to continue suffering these people. Not Jeremy, of course. Jeremy is my favorite person, and it’s his birthday.
Everything is blurry, and I’m happy my apartment is so close by. I really don’t know what I’m thinking. Fog clouds my thoughts, everything seems pointless. I’m not sad, mind you – I’m nothing.
The one place I feel safe these days is my bedroom. It’s really cute: a large IKEA cube shelf at the head of the bed, loads of paintings hung salon-style on my walls, an antique bookshelf filled with shoes. Oh how I love shoes. An armoire Jeremy & I bought in Arkansas; it’s great for storage and is a beauty.
There is nothing I want to do; I don’t even want to drink this bottle of wine – motivation doesn’t exist. I guess I’ll go ahead and take my Tylenol PM and drift into dreams, perhaps I’ll find motivation in my dreams.
I take my two pills, open my computer, go to my Gmail. I’m not completely certain what I have to write or to whom I’m going to write it, but I know there is something that needs to come out. I know. I don’t feel it, feeling is gone. But I know.
I open the bottle of Tylenol PM, and I wash all the pills down with some wine. It is red wine. I write:
You folks are the most amazing people I’ve met in this world, and for the pleasure of your company I thank ya. I don’t know anymore how to do this. Everything stikes me as simultaneously humorous and depressing and, well, the depressing has, I guess, won over.
You all know why I love you so there’s no reason to put it out here – you’re the five people in this world who have made me believe it can be a better place, perhaps even a place where fuckers as fucked in the head as me can feel free and maybe happy.
I saw you all this summer – it was my summer of goodbyes. I had great times with people I adore, and if nature somehow allows my brain to continue on, I will never forget y’all: the loves of my life.
I don’t think there’s anything anyone could have done, so don’t be all girly and silly. Just love, luvs. Love it all.
I close my eyes as sleep washes over me. I feel nothing. Perhaps I will find something, anything, in my dreams.
I know this isn’t a dream. And I know this is unpleasant. I’m not exactly aware of the goings on, but I am sure something real is happening. I am over a toilet with someone’s fingers down my throat. I am on my back and my sweater is being tugged or ripped, something is happening.
I wake up just slightly. I am tied tightly to a bed and scream for Jeremy. I scream and scream, but Jeremy never comes. I don’t know where I am, but I know I am bound to a bed and the lights are bright, glaring. I am afraid. I prefer feeling nothing over feeling afraid. I drift back into sleep.
I wake up to a man asking me if I know where I am. I do not know where I am, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I drift back into sleep.
I wake up to a a girl in a red coat. I recognize Marta and say, “I like your coat.” I drift back into sleep.
I wake up in a room, a nurse doing something involving caring for me, and this time I stay awake. I ask her how she’s doing. I ask her name. She is doing very well and is glad to see me awake. Her name is Nancy, and she seems very pleasant. I smile.
Now I feel. I feel a lot, more than I can process. I am alive and am surprised. I don’t believe in a god, but I believe in something, and I know I have survived so that I can begin to live, that there must be something I am supposed to do. I don’t know what that is, though. I remain confused, but at least now I feel.