It was clear that her lonely days were getting to her; everyone could see that.
She would sit at home and while away the hours reading and responding to Facebook posts. She didn’t have much interest in playing video games after she swore off a certain popular Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game that shall remain unnamed. Most of her online friends were still playing that particular game so they did not have much to talk about anymore.
She did like to paint and draw and would spend hours creating pieces that would just end up hidden beneath the bed in her portfolio, which was so overcrowded that she had taken thirty or so of her works and just stuffed them into a sleeve in the back of the black leather binder.
At one point, while researching a new diagnosis of hers, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome-- a misnomer if ever there was one-- she ran across a project that allowed her to contribute some of her paintings to a book that was created by and for sufferers of the disease. It was meant to be a beacon of hope. She did her best to make her contributions just that. But the project, at least her part of it, only lasted two weeks and she was back to mediocrity and waiting for her Partner to get home so that she could have some human interaction that did not involve her parents.
One evening, she received a call from one of her more elusive friends from highschool who, like many of the friends she had made before age fifteen, had been swallowed up by the corporate world of nines and fives and was very difficult to reach.
Her friend was beside herself with glee:
“I was driving home and I saw the cutest little dog in the window of the groomer’s near my house! The lady said that she was giving her away to a good home! I want to get her but I already have Lola and, when I offered her to my mom, she started screaming at me. You have to go get her!”
“How much is she?”
“Ugh! I just said she was giving her away. She’s free!”
“I’ll go take a look tomorrow then.”
“You’re going to love her. She’s so quiet and so cute!”
That night, she asked her mother if she wouldn’t mind taking her to the groomer near her Excitable Friend’s house. Her mother was wary of the idea of her owning a dog but was simultaneously open to it because of how introverted her daughter had become. She agreed to it.
The next day, they drove twenty minutes north-east to the grooming shop and parked.
The Girl was wary. Her Excitable Friend was often full of many ideas that were terribly impulsive. She hoped that this would not be one of them.
It was.
With her new dog in her arms and promises to take exceptionally good care of the little thing, who turned out to be a pure bred Shih Tzu of an unknown age, she found herself leaving the groomer’s shop with a new companion and a new responsibility.
She also found herself in need of an explanation for her Partner when he returned home from work that night. She had left him out of the decision process completely. Hell, she had nearly left herself out of the decision process; she just needed to see that cute little off-kilter gait that the dog exhibited to fall head over heals in love and everyone knows that love is as capricious an emotion as they come.
On the drive home she sent a text to her Excitable Friend:
“Got dog. Going to show her to her new home. She is quiet and sweet. Thank you for finding her!”
The collar around her neck was as ratty as they come. It was a faded teal and looked as though it had been around her neck for the better part of her life. The tag said “China”. Being that she was black and white and looked like the Good China that one only brings out for the most important of guests or most sacred of occasions, the name fit. But, well, it seemed so... Old.
Before leaving the shop, the Groomer informed the Girl that the previous owner had to give her up because of financial strain: the pills China took were entirely too expensive for a little old woman on nothing but Social Security. Having no income herself, she could understand this and her mother agreed to pay the monthly medical expenses for China.
But China was such an old-fashioned name for a supposedly five year old dog. She set about immediately researching new names that sounded like China but were not, well, “China”.
Chee Chee? No.
Myna? No.
Luna? Good, but she already knew someone by that name.
Mila? No.
Butch? Hah, no.
Fluffy? Nope.
Hailey? No.
Cerberus? Not even close.
Chie? Cute but no.
“Well, Chai, I guess I’ll have to get some more opinions on names,” She sat next to her sleeping companion on the couch and started stroking her back.
She stopped.
She realised what she had just said:
“Chai. Chai! C-H-A-I! I can call you Chai! It’s my favourite kind of hot drink! Oh frabjous day! I’ve found you a name that fits! Chai! You’re going to be so happy here, Chai. I’m going to take the best care of you.” She swooped her up into her arms and gave her a long, nuzzling hug. That was when she realised that Chai needed a bath. Before doing so, she phoned the Veterinary Hospital that her mother’s dog went to and made an appointment; it is not wise to bathe an animal without knowing if it needs special care or not.
“Special Care” was an understatement for little Chai.
That night, her Partner came home at the same time he always did. She was so nervous that she had to pop an extra Xanax to make sure that she did not come unglued and start sobbing apologies before he’d even had a chance to see the dog.
He dragged himself in the door, looking a little worse for wear and extremely tired.
“Rough day?” She asked.
“Mmm,” He replied lifelessly.
“I have a surprise for you... It’s, um, it’s on the, uh, couch.” Despite his dogged demeanour, she could barely contain her excitement.
“Mmm?” He perked up ever so slightly.
She lead him into the Common Room where Chai was curled up on top of the couch, a soft whine emanating from her very soul.
“What is...? Where...? Now listen here...” He looked down at her and she looked back, her deep brown eyes wide circles beneath her bangs. They had a clouded, faraway look to them but it was obvious that she was looking at him with great intensity.
He sighed and picked her up.
“Come on,” He ushered the girl out of the room, “Let’s go get her some fries.”
Without another word, they piled into the car, her Partner at the helm and Chai in her lap. They drove to Wendy’s, her Partner’s favourite fast food establishment. Since she really had not eaten much fast food before meeting him, it quickly became hers as well. She ordered a salad, he ordered a chicken sandwich combination, and Chai was designated an order of small fries. That night, they discovered her favourite food from the human world.
There was no objection to the name Chai from anyone. It was quick and easy to say and she seemed to take to it very quickly.
It also became very quickly known as to the real reason Chai’s previous owner had given her up: she was rife with physical maladies that, once they began, never seemed to stop.
First, and continually until the day she will take her last breath, she became stricken with what they ended up calling The Smelly Disease.
Being a purebred animal, she was liable to have health issues but it was not foreseen that she would have such expensive ones.
After anti-biotics and weekly baths kept The Smelly Disease at bay, she developed high levels of liver enzymes, and odd readings regarding her cortisol levels. She turned out to have Cushing’s Disease. Right about the same time, The Smelly Disease returned with a vengeance:
Chai had to have all of her hair shaved off, was placed in a medicated bath, given medication to help with this semi-new problem, and sent home.
For a while, Chai was a new dog. She was happy, ran around the house barking, played like a normal ten year old dog (it turned out that her medical papers went back ten years, not five), and even became a Service Animal for the Girl.
She took Chai everywhere. For two years, Chai was glued to the Girl’s hip. She brought her back to visit family in Tennessee twice: once for an extremely hot, muggy, and miserable wedding (to the Girl, every wedding was a miserable affair since she had been married once... a story for another time) and another time for a cold, snowy, and rather raucous New Year’s celebration that ended with a New Year’s kiss, both she and a nameless middle-aged woman grinding on her Partner, and her first cigarette of the New Year. She rather liked the whole affair, honestly.
After the second trip, Chai was retired from flying because of her declining health-- she overheated on the airplane and nearly passed out-- but continued to be a dedicated Service Animal for another six months. She was retired altogether after large lumps were found in her breasts and she had to have three of them taken out completely. Soon after, she developed debilitating pain in what seemed like her back. A two-thousand dollar MRI and four day hospital stay later told the family that Chai had bulging discs in her neck. There was nothing that could be done because of her age and history of liver issues. In short, she might go under for the surgery and not come back up. She was given very strong pain medications and confined to a crate for nearly a month so that she could get better.
Chai now lives the life of a very old cat. She sleeps twenty-two hours a day, poops and pees wherever she feels like it, though everyone likes to think that she tries to go on her designated piddle-pad, eats as much as she wants, is brushed daily, and is bathed weekly. She gets to romp around the neighbourhood as long as there is enough light out for her “Mom” to see her and she can sleep any place she wants to, as long as she is watched closely for incontinence.
Chai is succeeded in her duties by the Young Dog, who is many years her junior, full of endless energy, and is quick to learn.
Chai is mostly blind and almost entirely deaf so she is never expected to do tricks for her treats anymore. The most common command she gets is “Exist... Good ‘Exist’!”.
Every time Chai went in to the hospital or was just plain ill, the Monster within would leave the girl alone. It was almost as if it knew better than to try and rear its ugly head while she was stricken with grief.
The Monster would just lay dormant, in a sort of hibernation state, waiting for the right time to ascend the walls of its prison and strike out at those the Girl cared about. But the Monster did not like mental hospitals and, every time it came up from the depths and lashed out at those who showed nothing but love and support towards the Girl during difficult times such as the ones with Chai, they would be thrown into the hospital for a week and neither of them wanted that.
Of course, the Girl never wanted the Monster or anything that had to do with it to begin with.
Chai may have been an old, slow, smelly service dog, but she kept the Monster at bay and that was all she really needed to do to be a successful Service Animal.
Showing posts with label xanax. Show all posts
Showing posts with label xanax. Show all posts
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Awake to Sleep
She woke up at 7:45 that morning.
Waking up was usually a calming moment for her. She would open her eyes, steadily letting the dim light of the early morning flood in between her eyelids, not unlike the way the light pours in through the slats of vertical wooden shutters.
Then she would steadily become aware of where she was: on her couch; in a hotel some place far away; in the upstairs attic-style room of a farmhouse in Tennessee; in her mother’s recliner; on an airplane destined for either a hotel or the attic room. Or was she, more commonly, just sleeping on the couch, across from her Partner, who often fell asleep in the theatre-style seat recliner that was kitty-corner to her? And, even more commonly, she would find herself awake in bed, half of the blankets missing from on top of her because her Partner had decided to roll over at some point in the night, taking them with him.
This morning she woke up with most of the blankets kicked off of her at some point during the night, her mouth as dry as cotton, and words rasping out of it as she became aware less quickly than usual:
“No...no... D-don’t go! I can’t find my medicine. I can’t find you if you go! Wait! Stop!”
She writhed in what was left of the blankets and tried to sit up. She could not. She wriggled around until she could see where she was-- her Partner was asleep on the theatre seat recliner, the Young Dog was asleep on top of him, and the Old Dog was snoring on the floor in the crook of the couch, which was shaped like an “L”.
A low wail escaped Her lips. She knew where she was in the real world but the dream she had been in had felt so real.
The Young Dog, hearing Her moan, jumped off of her partner and climbed on top of her.
She moaned again, recalling the dream:
It had been something about a sinking ship. She had a lot of disaster oriented dreams, all of which ended in either her death or her loss of control over the situation-- This one had ended in her loss of control.
Her Partner was in the dream, although he was not nearly as handsome as he was in the Real World; she was sure of that even as she dreamt.
The boat they were on was presently sinking at a curiously slow rate, as though time had come to a crawl outside the boat while chaos was rife within. Passengers, many of them supposed colleagues and friends of hers, clamoured to get out of the sinking freighter, which was about the size of an aircraft carrier and held many thousands of people. The ones she cared most about were holed up in a bunk area that was reserved for the workers of the ship; specifically, the food preparation and service workers. During her service on the freighter, she had been a clerk at a fast-food restaurant and, barring the friends she had goaded on to join her in this “endeavour”, she had acquired many new friends who were quickly turning out to be the kind that only cared for fair weather. She had gotten her foot stuck beneath one of the bunks as the water was rising and, each time she called for help, they would yell as they ran, trudged, slogged, and finally swam through the brackish water that was filling up the room: “You’re strong; much stronger than me! You can get up! I need to save my stuff!”
It was true; she was strong, but she could not unravel the thick blankets that had wrapped themselves around her leg and her legs were the weakest part of her body, yet another parallel to her situation in Real Life.
Then her Partner came along.
His hair was thicker, his body more muscular, though he was still incredibly lean, and his striking hazel eyes met hers as she said: “Help me.”
Her voice was a soft plea.
He looked at her, his face full of guilt and shame as he replied, “I cannot.”
He was not handsome at all.
The water was up to her neck. It only reached his waist because of the tilt of the freighter as it sank. He slogged on through the cold brackish water, leaving her behind.
She screamed at him to come back. She cried that he was her only hope. Then she dove beneath the dark, deepening water and began to unwrap her legs from the noose that the blankets had created.
It was nearly impossible but, as she came up for air, she found that a multi-tool had been lying on the previously top bunk, which was now next to her head. She grabbed it, took a final breath, and dove down.
She switched open the multi-tool and pulled out the serrated knife that was often used as a seat belt cutter by paramedics. She easily sawed through her heavy cloth shackles and, with her saviour secure in her mouth, she swam out of the room as everything was swallowed up by the wet deathly dark.
As she emerged from the doomed freighter, her partner was in sight, standing on a strangely convenient island that had a modest seaside mansion atop of it. She could barely make out his form but she knew it was him by the way he carried himself. An accomplished swimmer, she did the breast stroke until she reached the shallow water around the island’s beach. She walked unsteadily from there. Hundreds of others had followed her lead, though they were all carrying large amounts of personal effects; some of them not even water proof-- laptops, cell phones, portable pad-style computers. One couple was struggling to stay afloat while they dragged a fairly large flat-screened television between them. She yelled at everyone to leave their possessions behind: they could be replaced. Not a single one paid her any mind. Some began to sink, drowning with their treasures. She did not help them.
One passenger was struggling to stay afloat while the only possession he had with him was a white, waterlogged, and very angry cat. The left side of his face was covered in scratches and he was one-third of the way to reaching the island. She optioned to dive into the water and help him. She put the cat atop her head, which was covered with a baseball cap that she’d found on the beach. She then began to tread water as the cat’s owner pushed the two of them along to the safety of the island. Though he thanked her quickly, he was not short of gratitude-- it showed in his eyes. He removed a sweatshirt that he’d had tied about his waist (she wondered how he could have swam so well with such a bulky thing dragging along with him), wrapped up the still nettled little cat, and ran off to find his kin.
Her Partner was nowhere in sight.
She shuffled through the ranks of the refugees twice before she realised that he must have caught a boat to the mainland.
She hurried to the docks as quickly as her weakened legs would allow. Sure enough, he had boarded a small speed boat that was just about filled to capacity. She would not make it in time to join him. Again she cried out:
“Help me! Wait! Don’t go!”
She fell onto her stomach in the sand and tears rolled down her cheeks:
“No...no... D-don’t go! I can’t find my medicine. I can’t find you if you go! Wait! Stop!”
She woke up, tangled in her blankets, half of them gone, and still moaning. She re-oriented herself and stopped moaning when she realised that she was at home and quite safe, her Partner sleeping just a few feet away.
She picked up her mobile phone to check the time: It was 7:45 am. Damn... It would be three more hours before she was to go to lunch with a friend of the family and, since her Partner was very fast asleep, she did not want to wake him by getting up and doing busy work around the house.
She sighed. It was so inconvenient when he fell asleep on the couch-- it really limited the things that she could do. She did realise that she was terribly cold, though, and turned the thermostat up to seventy-something. When she stood up, the Young Dog that had laid on top of her dropped from onto the couch.
The Young Dog looked up at her with doe-like brown eyes as if to say “Are we done sleeping? Can I have a treat? I saved you from the bad noises! I can have a treat?”
She knew the look well. She motioned for the young dog to follow her into the foyer, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and into “The Hall of Doing Stuff”-- a mud room that led out into the upward-sloping backyard.
She opened the back door.
The Young Dog burst out from between her legs in a single flying leap, her legs moving so fast as she tore around the yard that they blurred together. The grass was icy so she did not stop running until she did her business and then started right up again as though she had never stopped. The Girl’s mother had said that the Young Dog looked like a prancing gazelle. She had to disagree: the little tan chihuahua-terrier mix definitely identified more with a Dik-Dik in both stature and top speed.
Cold air had been rushing in since she’d opened the door for the Young Dog but the excited little romper was not answering her summons. She yelled for her once more in a very stern, motherly tone, which got the dog’s attention and sent her hurtling down the Garden Slope, back between her legs, through the Hall and finally screeching to a stop in the kitchen where the little dog did a one-hundred and eighty degree airborne jump.
The doe-eyed look was back, clearly stating “Cookies now”.
“Yes yes-- Cookies now, Dog.” While the Young Dog had been tearing around the Garden Slope, She had slipped away and grabbed two little dog biscuits for her.
Seeing the cookies, the Young Dog instantaneously sat, her tail wagging behind her.
The Girl laid her hand out flat, parallel to the floor, and gave the Young Dog a look as if to say “you know what I want out of you, missy”.
The little dog dropped onto her stomach, eyes still matching the Girl’s: “Cookies. Now?”
She tentatively placed one cookie in the Young Dog’s mouth, who began to awkwardly chew. She placed the second in front of the dog’s paws and left her to decide its fate.
Her phone rang. Lovely.
She answered it; her mother’s chipper voice came piping out of the earpiece.
“Oh yeah. Good morning, mum,” She flopped back onto the couch as though her Partner was not even there. She jumped back up as soon as she’d sat down and found a quiet corner in The Hall of Doing Stuff instead.
“I’ll be ready to go whenever you all are.” Pause. “Uh huh.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “Ten-thirty, then.” Another final pause as her mother wrapped up the details. “Yeah, alright, see you then. Love you bye.” She pressed the picture of the red telephone on her cell and ended the call. She wandered out of the Hall of Doing Stuff-- Named by a stoner friend of hers who had announced that one could do just about anything in that little mud room because it somehow managed to hold a sizeable pantry, refrigerator, trash and recycle bins, washer, dryer, dishwasher, and a curmudgeonly little hedgehog, by the name of Scout Finch, who would only come out to play when she damn well felt like it.
She got dressed slowly. She had an hour to spare before her family would be leaving for lunch. She pulled on a T-shirt over a bra that she had been wearing continuously for nearly two days. To compensate for any unpleasant smell, she rolled on some anti-perspirant and sprayed herself with a clean smelling Wal-Mart version of Playboy Brand body spray. She pulled on some skinny fit jeans which were starting to fall off of her hips. She had no complains with that and, instead of trying to fuss with a belt all day, she snapped a pair of black suspenders onto them and pulled them on over her shirt.
With fifty-five minutes still left, she grabbed a fat-free yogurt cup and took her handful of colourful medications for the morning. If she was going to be out, she did not want to be popping pills in public. It was not that she felt self conscious about it, it was just that she was afraid she may lose one in her haste to swallow them all and not get the full benefit of her prescriptions, all of which she, as she had said many times, needed “to live”.
She tossed her yogurt into the trash can in The Hall of Doing Stuff. She then moseyed through the kitchen, the dining room, and stopped at the front door in the foyer, dropping her forehead onto one of its cool glass panes. The mostly-glass antique door faced the street and she could see cars coming and going, families getting their children ready for school, dogs walking up and down the sidewalk. She could also see her mother outside in the yard of the sunny yellow house across the street-- her mother and father’s house.
She had been told by some that depression hits like a ton of bricks. Still others said that it was like the last straw piled on to the back of a camel, breaking it and rendering it as good as dead. To her, depression did not approach her in either fashion; it came on like a heavy cloud of sleepiness. It made her body feel heavy, filled her mind with a thick, acrid London fog, and took every bit of care for anything at all out of her being.
She blankly stared out the window for what seemed like an eternity. She checked her watch: it might as well have been an eternity as it was time to go.
She zipped up her hoodie, grabbed a hat, popped on her shoes, and, not bothering to tie them, hurried down the twelve steps that it took to reach the sidewalk, looked three times before she ambled across the street, walked up the four stairs that lead to her parents home, and knocked on the front door.
She let herself in,
Moments later, she let herself out. Nobody was ready, their time of departure had changed from 10:30 to 11:00, and mother insisted that their friend was always early, though she was nowhere in sight.
She excused herself and opened the front door, descended the four steps, looked once before she crossed the street, and ambled unsteadily up the twelve stairs to her front door. She was greeted with a blast of warm air when she entered the house. She lowered the thermostat a little, noticed that her Partner had moved himself into the bedroom, and sat down on the couch.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t tell anyone why; they just did that on their own. She cradled her head in her hands for a few minutes before she picked up her cell phone and sent a text to her mother:
“Not feeling well. Bring back tortillas and beans for me plz?”
Her mother replied more quickly than usual:
“Hope u feel better. Ok.”
She laid down on the couch and thought about the dream she’d had. She thought about what it might have meant, though she did not believe in such things.
She thought about lighting a candle above the statue of her Goddess, a statue she had sculpted herself. She did not move.
She thought about death and how it offered the chance to take her away from all of this pain. She was afraid to die.
She thought about how she had no idea where the pain was coming from in the first place. The prospect of never getting better made the idea of death less terrifying.
She still did not move.
She wanted it all to end but the depression was winning to the point that all she could do was pull a blanket around her, grab a few Xanax from the backpack she always took with her when she went out, and go to sleep.
She laid her head down on the pillow, sinking into the soft couch cushions. She prayed not to dream.
She did not dream.
Waking up was usually a calming moment for her. She would open her eyes, steadily letting the dim light of the early morning flood in between her eyelids, not unlike the way the light pours in through the slats of vertical wooden shutters.
Then she would steadily become aware of where she was: on her couch; in a hotel some place far away; in the upstairs attic-style room of a farmhouse in Tennessee; in her mother’s recliner; on an airplane destined for either a hotel or the attic room. Or was she, more commonly, just sleeping on the couch, across from her Partner, who often fell asleep in the theatre-style seat recliner that was kitty-corner to her? And, even more commonly, she would find herself awake in bed, half of the blankets missing from on top of her because her Partner had decided to roll over at some point in the night, taking them with him.
This morning she woke up with most of the blankets kicked off of her at some point during the night, her mouth as dry as cotton, and words rasping out of it as she became aware less quickly than usual:
“No...no... D-don’t go! I can’t find my medicine. I can’t find you if you go! Wait! Stop!”
She writhed in what was left of the blankets and tried to sit up. She could not. She wriggled around until she could see where she was-- her Partner was asleep on the theatre seat recliner, the Young Dog was asleep on top of him, and the Old Dog was snoring on the floor in the crook of the couch, which was shaped like an “L”.
A low wail escaped Her lips. She knew where she was in the real world but the dream she had been in had felt so real.
The Young Dog, hearing Her moan, jumped off of her partner and climbed on top of her.
She moaned again, recalling the dream:
It had been something about a sinking ship. She had a lot of disaster oriented dreams, all of which ended in either her death or her loss of control over the situation-- This one had ended in her loss of control.
Her Partner was in the dream, although he was not nearly as handsome as he was in the Real World; she was sure of that even as she dreamt.
The boat they were on was presently sinking at a curiously slow rate, as though time had come to a crawl outside the boat while chaos was rife within. Passengers, many of them supposed colleagues and friends of hers, clamoured to get out of the sinking freighter, which was about the size of an aircraft carrier and held many thousands of people. The ones she cared most about were holed up in a bunk area that was reserved for the workers of the ship; specifically, the food preparation and service workers. During her service on the freighter, she had been a clerk at a fast-food restaurant and, barring the friends she had goaded on to join her in this “endeavour”, she had acquired many new friends who were quickly turning out to be the kind that only cared for fair weather. She had gotten her foot stuck beneath one of the bunks as the water was rising and, each time she called for help, they would yell as they ran, trudged, slogged, and finally swam through the brackish water that was filling up the room: “You’re strong; much stronger than me! You can get up! I need to save my stuff!”
It was true; she was strong, but she could not unravel the thick blankets that had wrapped themselves around her leg and her legs were the weakest part of her body, yet another parallel to her situation in Real Life.
Then her Partner came along.
His hair was thicker, his body more muscular, though he was still incredibly lean, and his striking hazel eyes met hers as she said: “Help me.”
Her voice was a soft plea.
He looked at her, his face full of guilt and shame as he replied, “I cannot.”
He was not handsome at all.
The water was up to her neck. It only reached his waist because of the tilt of the freighter as it sank. He slogged on through the cold brackish water, leaving her behind.
She screamed at him to come back. She cried that he was her only hope. Then she dove beneath the dark, deepening water and began to unwrap her legs from the noose that the blankets had created.
It was nearly impossible but, as she came up for air, she found that a multi-tool had been lying on the previously top bunk, which was now next to her head. She grabbed it, took a final breath, and dove down.
She switched open the multi-tool and pulled out the serrated knife that was often used as a seat belt cutter by paramedics. She easily sawed through her heavy cloth shackles and, with her saviour secure in her mouth, she swam out of the room as everything was swallowed up by the wet deathly dark.
As she emerged from the doomed freighter, her partner was in sight, standing on a strangely convenient island that had a modest seaside mansion atop of it. She could barely make out his form but she knew it was him by the way he carried himself. An accomplished swimmer, she did the breast stroke until she reached the shallow water around the island’s beach. She walked unsteadily from there. Hundreds of others had followed her lead, though they were all carrying large amounts of personal effects; some of them not even water proof-- laptops, cell phones, portable pad-style computers. One couple was struggling to stay afloat while they dragged a fairly large flat-screened television between them. She yelled at everyone to leave their possessions behind: they could be replaced. Not a single one paid her any mind. Some began to sink, drowning with their treasures. She did not help them.
One passenger was struggling to stay afloat while the only possession he had with him was a white, waterlogged, and very angry cat. The left side of his face was covered in scratches and he was one-third of the way to reaching the island. She optioned to dive into the water and help him. She put the cat atop her head, which was covered with a baseball cap that she’d found on the beach. She then began to tread water as the cat’s owner pushed the two of them along to the safety of the island. Though he thanked her quickly, he was not short of gratitude-- it showed in his eyes. He removed a sweatshirt that he’d had tied about his waist (she wondered how he could have swam so well with such a bulky thing dragging along with him), wrapped up the still nettled little cat, and ran off to find his kin.
Her Partner was nowhere in sight.
She shuffled through the ranks of the refugees twice before she realised that he must have caught a boat to the mainland.
She hurried to the docks as quickly as her weakened legs would allow. Sure enough, he had boarded a small speed boat that was just about filled to capacity. She would not make it in time to join him. Again she cried out:
“Help me! Wait! Don’t go!”
She fell onto her stomach in the sand and tears rolled down her cheeks:
“No...no... D-don’t go! I can’t find my medicine. I can’t find you if you go! Wait! Stop!”
She woke up, tangled in her blankets, half of them gone, and still moaning. She re-oriented herself and stopped moaning when she realised that she was at home and quite safe, her Partner sleeping just a few feet away.
She picked up her mobile phone to check the time: It was 7:45 am. Damn... It would be three more hours before she was to go to lunch with a friend of the family and, since her Partner was very fast asleep, she did not want to wake him by getting up and doing busy work around the house.
She sighed. It was so inconvenient when he fell asleep on the couch-- it really limited the things that she could do. She did realise that she was terribly cold, though, and turned the thermostat up to seventy-something. When she stood up, the Young Dog that had laid on top of her dropped from onto the couch.
The Young Dog looked up at her with doe-like brown eyes as if to say “Are we done sleeping? Can I have a treat? I saved you from the bad noises! I can have a treat?”
She knew the look well. She motioned for the young dog to follow her into the foyer, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and into “The Hall of Doing Stuff”-- a mud room that led out into the upward-sloping backyard.
She opened the back door.
The Young Dog burst out from between her legs in a single flying leap, her legs moving so fast as she tore around the yard that they blurred together. The grass was icy so she did not stop running until she did her business and then started right up again as though she had never stopped. The Girl’s mother had said that the Young Dog looked like a prancing gazelle. She had to disagree: the little tan chihuahua-terrier mix definitely identified more with a Dik-Dik in both stature and top speed.
Cold air had been rushing in since she’d opened the door for the Young Dog but the excited little romper was not answering her summons. She yelled for her once more in a very stern, motherly tone, which got the dog’s attention and sent her hurtling down the Garden Slope, back between her legs, through the Hall and finally screeching to a stop in the kitchen where the little dog did a one-hundred and eighty degree airborne jump.
The doe-eyed look was back, clearly stating “Cookies now”.
“Yes yes-- Cookies now, Dog.” While the Young Dog had been tearing around the Garden Slope, She had slipped away and grabbed two little dog biscuits for her.
Seeing the cookies, the Young Dog instantaneously sat, her tail wagging behind her.
The Girl laid her hand out flat, parallel to the floor, and gave the Young Dog a look as if to say “you know what I want out of you, missy”.
The little dog dropped onto her stomach, eyes still matching the Girl’s: “Cookies. Now?”
She tentatively placed one cookie in the Young Dog’s mouth, who began to awkwardly chew. She placed the second in front of the dog’s paws and left her to decide its fate.
Her phone rang. Lovely.
She answered it; her mother’s chipper voice came piping out of the earpiece.
“Oh yeah. Good morning, mum,” She flopped back onto the couch as though her Partner was not even there. She jumped back up as soon as she’d sat down and found a quiet corner in The Hall of Doing Stuff instead.
“I’ll be ready to go whenever you all are.” Pause. “Uh huh.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “Ten-thirty, then.” Another final pause as her mother wrapped up the details. “Yeah, alright, see you then. Love you bye.” She pressed the picture of the red telephone on her cell and ended the call. She wandered out of the Hall of Doing Stuff-- Named by a stoner friend of hers who had announced that one could do just about anything in that little mud room because it somehow managed to hold a sizeable pantry, refrigerator, trash and recycle bins, washer, dryer, dishwasher, and a curmudgeonly little hedgehog, by the name of Scout Finch, who would only come out to play when she damn well felt like it.
She got dressed slowly. She had an hour to spare before her family would be leaving for lunch. She pulled on a T-shirt over a bra that she had been wearing continuously for nearly two days. To compensate for any unpleasant smell, she rolled on some anti-perspirant and sprayed herself with a clean smelling Wal-Mart version of Playboy Brand body spray. She pulled on some skinny fit jeans which were starting to fall off of her hips. She had no complains with that and, instead of trying to fuss with a belt all day, she snapped a pair of black suspenders onto them and pulled them on over her shirt.
With fifty-five minutes still left, she grabbed a fat-free yogurt cup and took her handful of colourful medications for the morning. If she was going to be out, she did not want to be popping pills in public. It was not that she felt self conscious about it, it was just that she was afraid she may lose one in her haste to swallow them all and not get the full benefit of her prescriptions, all of which she, as she had said many times, needed “to live”.
She tossed her yogurt into the trash can in The Hall of Doing Stuff. She then moseyed through the kitchen, the dining room, and stopped at the front door in the foyer, dropping her forehead onto one of its cool glass panes. The mostly-glass antique door faced the street and she could see cars coming and going, families getting their children ready for school, dogs walking up and down the sidewalk. She could also see her mother outside in the yard of the sunny yellow house across the street-- her mother and father’s house.
She had been told by some that depression hits like a ton of bricks. Still others said that it was like the last straw piled on to the back of a camel, breaking it and rendering it as good as dead. To her, depression did not approach her in either fashion; it came on like a heavy cloud of sleepiness. It made her body feel heavy, filled her mind with a thick, acrid London fog, and took every bit of care for anything at all out of her being.
She blankly stared out the window for what seemed like an eternity. She checked her watch: it might as well have been an eternity as it was time to go.
She zipped up her hoodie, grabbed a hat, popped on her shoes, and, not bothering to tie them, hurried down the twelve steps that it took to reach the sidewalk, looked three times before she ambled across the street, walked up the four stairs that lead to her parents home, and knocked on the front door.
She let herself in,
Moments later, she let herself out. Nobody was ready, their time of departure had changed from 10:30 to 11:00, and mother insisted that their friend was always early, though she was nowhere in sight.
She excused herself and opened the front door, descended the four steps, looked once before she crossed the street, and ambled unsteadily up the twelve stairs to her front door. She was greeted with a blast of warm air when she entered the house. She lowered the thermostat a little, noticed that her Partner had moved himself into the bedroom, and sat down on the couch.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t tell anyone why; they just did that on their own. She cradled her head in her hands for a few minutes before she picked up her cell phone and sent a text to her mother:
“Not feeling well. Bring back tortillas and beans for me plz?”
Her mother replied more quickly than usual:
“Hope u feel better. Ok.”
She laid down on the couch and thought about the dream she’d had. She thought about what it might have meant, though she did not believe in such things.
She thought about lighting a candle above the statue of her Goddess, a statue she had sculpted herself. She did not move.
She thought about death and how it offered the chance to take her away from all of this pain. She was afraid to die.
She thought about how she had no idea where the pain was coming from in the first place. The prospect of never getting better made the idea of death less terrifying.
She still did not move.
She wanted it all to end but the depression was winning to the point that all she could do was pull a blanket around her, grab a few Xanax from the backpack she always took with her when she went out, and go to sleep.
She laid her head down on the pillow, sinking into the soft couch cushions. She prayed not to dream.
She did not dream.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
I Want To Go Home
It was a dark and stormy night...
No, not outside; the darkness was caused by storms of lightning-fast synapses firing inside her brain. It was painful-- everywhere she ran to became a lightning rod and she was struck over and over. Her hands twitched, her head was cocked in an odd position. She laid curled up on an overstuffed grey couch, one reclining seat fully pushed out to accommodate her bottle of water, Playstation controller, and the television remote which she only used it to control the volume-- it always seemed either too loud or not loud enough.
She clutched a yarn-haired doll close, her eyes staring a thousand yards beyond the blank TV.
“I want to go home.”
Her partner covered her with a blanket, and asked if she’d taken her medicine yet. She shook her head to indicate that no, she had not. “Where is it?” He knew where it was but there were so many bottles that he never knew which one of them was for what.
“Tallest one with the horse pills. White. The pills. The pills are white.” He had been kneeling next to her and started to get up. Her right hand unclasped itself from the doll and attached itself to his shirt:
“And... short bottle. It says “Alprazo--” it just has blue pills in it. It’s the only one with blue pills. Blue and small. That’s all. Get them now. I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
Her partner stood up and her hand fell limp to the side of the couch as she loosened her grasp on his shirt.
He walked into the kitchen. Pill bottles were scattered between the coffee maker and a standing roll of paper towels. He picked out the tall bottle easily. He had to open several bottles before he found the one with the blue pills in it. He also brought along another bottle that looked helpful and a glass of water.
He put the bottles on the footrest of the reclined couch and then stood next to her: “Take them.”
“I don’t want them,” she looked at the third bottle, a medicine that she took at night to help her sleep. “I can’t take that one. I take that one at night. I don’t want it. Why did you bring it? I don’t want it. I want to go home.”
He took the bottle she had rejected and put it into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Take these.” He pointed to the remaining two bottles.
A lava flow of hot tears rolled slowly down her cheeks while her mouth erupted with anger: “I don’t want them! Why do I have to take pills? I don’t want pills! I hate them! I hate you! I hate this! This is stupid! I want to go home!”
He didn’t say a word. His face was stoic, a stone slab devoid of emotions. Of course, inside he was crying. He hated to watch her when she had these breakdowns. It tore him apart inside. He hated the monster that seemed to take up residence within her-- she was usually so kind and sweet. He wondered where the girl he had fallen in love with went while the monster dwelt inside her earthly shell.
She knew where she went. She could see it all happening from the outside. She watched from one-thousand yards away as her beloved partner tried to reason with the monster. She saw her earthly eyes staring back at her, begging her to come back. But she would not come back. No, not while the smell of death and rot hung about the tangible piece of herself that was sewn tightly to the cushions on the couch. She would not come back until the monster was asleep and she could easily throw it off of the ethereal cliff that was positioned right below its current dwelling-- trespassing within her. She prayed that her shell would not fall into the depths along with the monster, who had a capricious nature and sometimes took her earthly body with it into the abyss when medicinal aid did not reach her in time.
Back on the couch, the shell of who she was gave into the monster and punched her partner in the arm.
“I’m not taking them! You can’t make me! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I want. To. Go. Home!”
He grabbed her wrist as she came in for another punch. Her arms were strong; months in a wheelchair had made sure of that. Her punches hurt him physically but they created such deep gashes emotionally, as though she had punched him with a Stoßdolch.
He managed to open the pill bottle with the blue ones inside. Twelve or so fell onto the couch. He picked up two of them and held them out to her in his free palm: "Chew."
Her eyes burned with a hatred that was not particularly directed at anyone specific. To her partner, however, it looked as though she was trying to burn his very soul out from within him.
“No. I won’t.” Her words seethed out from between gritted teeth. At nearly the same time, a pain radiated through her jaw and she cried out. The monster was distracted and her body took this chance to grab the pills away from her partner and chew. He offered her water that she did not accept until she began to cough from attempting to dry-swallow the remainder of the unchewed medicine. She swallowed a small amount. Still in control of her own body, she grabbed the bottle of large white pills, wrenched it open, and swallowed two of those as well. These were for physical pain, of which she was in a great deal. They, like the blue pills, also had a calming effect. Chewing these was not an option as far as she was concerned-- they were far too large and chalky. She had never tried but she declined to experiment with them.
“Good girl,” her partner said quietly. He was sitting next to her on the couch. Somehow she had righted herself and become wrapped up in the Adventure Time blanket that he had laid over her earlier. He patted her back.
She did not feel like a good girl.
The monster within was becoming woozy and her body could feel it as well. Over the course of five long and painful minutes, the monster began to lose its grasp upon her and that is when her true self raced across the one-thousand yards and threw the monster into the pit from which it came.
“Want... to go...home...”, her shell managed before her real self took its place back within her.
"You ARE home. You're here on our couch in our living room. You are safe."
“I’m really sorry.” The words rolled out of her mouth lazily. Her entire being was beginning to feel sleepy.
“It’ll happen again,” her partner stated simply.
“No it won’t!” She cried in earnest, using the last of her strength, both physical and mental, to sit up quickly and confront the accusation.
“I won’t let it! I don’t want to hurt you! I meant it when I said I was sorry...” She hung her head down low and turned her gaze away from his. Beneath the blanket, her hands fidgeted: she knew what he said was true.
“I know you’re sorry,” He said calmly, “But that hasn’t stopped you before. I'm not going anywhere but you have to accept that it has and will happen again.”
She wanted to explain to him that it was not her who was creating the misery that he felt. She wanted to tell him that she felt possessed every time it happened. She wanted to make everything better just as quickly as she had made everything terrible and unhappy. But she also knew that this was not how it worked in the real world. Though he did forgive her, she had created wounds within him that were still bleeding and would soon scar over, just like all of the other times she had hurt him because of her illness.
She was vaguely aware of the monster, eyes glowing white-hot with unquenchable hatred, as it clung to the otherworldly precipice beneath her. She ignored it and closed her eyes. It’s strength failing, the monster lost its grasp upon its already unsteady hold and plunged to the bottom of the deep dark canyon of her subconscious mind. The storm that had been raging in her brain had calmed to a light, soothing drizzle. The skies in her mind were grey, just the way she liked the earthly skies. She was calm and drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Do you want me to put on ‘Cosmos’?”
“Mmmhmm.” She opened her eyes halfway.
“Okay,” He handed her the remote for the TV so that she could control the volume and took the Playstation controller so that he could turn Netflix on for her. Carl Sagan’s ‘Cosmos’ was one of her favourite shows to fall asleep to and sleep was something she desperately needed. He found it in the Instant Queue and pressed the ‘Play’ button. Soothing music began to pipe out of the TV speakers.
Her partner kissed her on the cheek. Bleary-eyed, she reached up for a hug. He bent down and accepted it.
“I... I really sorry, babe,” She managed.
“Take a nap,” He said as he broke the embrace.
“What you gonna do?”
“I’ll be in here soon. I’m going to go get online for a bit first, though.”
“Mmmmokay.” She tried to lock her gaze onto the TV but her eyes began to slowly shut.
“I lub ooo.” Her speech was significantly slurred.
“I love you too. Go to sleep.”
He left the room and sat at his computer desk. She could still see him sitting in his office if she tilted her head down a bit. It made her feel safe to know that he was there. She snuggled down into her Nightmare Before Christmas pillow and tried to focus on the calming voice of Carl Sagan.
Sleep overcame her and, for the next few hours, she knew nothing but dreams.
No, not outside; the darkness was caused by storms of lightning-fast synapses firing inside her brain. It was painful-- everywhere she ran to became a lightning rod and she was struck over and over. Her hands twitched, her head was cocked in an odd position. She laid curled up on an overstuffed grey couch, one reclining seat fully pushed out to accommodate her bottle of water, Playstation controller, and the television remote which she only used it to control the volume-- it always seemed either too loud or not loud enough.
She clutched a yarn-haired doll close, her eyes staring a thousand yards beyond the blank TV.
“I want to go home.”
Her partner covered her with a blanket, and asked if she’d taken her medicine yet. She shook her head to indicate that no, she had not. “Where is it?” He knew where it was but there were so many bottles that he never knew which one of them was for what.
“Tallest one with the horse pills. White. The pills. The pills are white.” He had been kneeling next to her and started to get up. Her right hand unclasped itself from the doll and attached itself to his shirt:
“And... short bottle. It says “Alprazo--” it just has blue pills in it. It’s the only one with blue pills. Blue and small. That’s all. Get them now. I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
Her partner stood up and her hand fell limp to the side of the couch as she loosened her grasp on his shirt.
He walked into the kitchen. Pill bottles were scattered between the coffee maker and a standing roll of paper towels. He picked out the tall bottle easily. He had to open several bottles before he found the one with the blue pills in it. He also brought along another bottle that looked helpful and a glass of water.
He put the bottles on the footrest of the reclined couch and then stood next to her: “Take them.”
“I don’t want them,” she looked at the third bottle, a medicine that she took at night to help her sleep. “I can’t take that one. I take that one at night. I don’t want it. Why did you bring it? I don’t want it. I want to go home.”
He took the bottle she had rejected and put it into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Take these.” He pointed to the remaining two bottles.
A lava flow of hot tears rolled slowly down her cheeks while her mouth erupted with anger: “I don’t want them! Why do I have to take pills? I don’t want pills! I hate them! I hate you! I hate this! This is stupid! I want to go home!”
He didn’t say a word. His face was stoic, a stone slab devoid of emotions. Of course, inside he was crying. He hated to watch her when she had these breakdowns. It tore him apart inside. He hated the monster that seemed to take up residence within her-- she was usually so kind and sweet. He wondered where the girl he had fallen in love with went while the monster dwelt inside her earthly shell.
She knew where she went. She could see it all happening from the outside. She watched from one-thousand yards away as her beloved partner tried to reason with the monster. She saw her earthly eyes staring back at her, begging her to come back. But she would not come back. No, not while the smell of death and rot hung about the tangible piece of herself that was sewn tightly to the cushions on the couch. She would not come back until the monster was asleep and she could easily throw it off of the ethereal cliff that was positioned right below its current dwelling-- trespassing within her. She prayed that her shell would not fall into the depths along with the monster, who had a capricious nature and sometimes took her earthly body with it into the abyss when medicinal aid did not reach her in time.
Back on the couch, the shell of who she was gave into the monster and punched her partner in the arm.
“I’m not taking them! You can’t make me! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I want. To. Go. Home!”
He grabbed her wrist as she came in for another punch. Her arms were strong; months in a wheelchair had made sure of that. Her punches hurt him physically but they created such deep gashes emotionally, as though she had punched him with a Stoßdolch.
He managed to open the pill bottle with the blue ones inside. Twelve or so fell onto the couch. He picked up two of them and held them out to her in his free palm: "Chew."
Her eyes burned with a hatred that was not particularly directed at anyone specific. To her partner, however, it looked as though she was trying to burn his very soul out from within him.
“No. I won’t.” Her words seethed out from between gritted teeth. At nearly the same time, a pain radiated through her jaw and she cried out. The monster was distracted and her body took this chance to grab the pills away from her partner and chew. He offered her water that she did not accept until she began to cough from attempting to dry-swallow the remainder of the unchewed medicine. She swallowed a small amount. Still in control of her own body, she grabbed the bottle of large white pills, wrenched it open, and swallowed two of those as well. These were for physical pain, of which she was in a great deal. They, like the blue pills, also had a calming effect. Chewing these was not an option as far as she was concerned-- they were far too large and chalky. She had never tried but she declined to experiment with them.
“Good girl,” her partner said quietly. He was sitting next to her on the couch. Somehow she had righted herself and become wrapped up in the Adventure Time blanket that he had laid over her earlier. He patted her back.
She did not feel like a good girl.
The monster within was becoming woozy and her body could feel it as well. Over the course of five long and painful minutes, the monster began to lose its grasp upon her and that is when her true self raced across the one-thousand yards and threw the monster into the pit from which it came.
“Want... to go...home...”, her shell managed before her real self took its place back within her.
"You ARE home. You're here on our couch in our living room. You are safe."
“I’m really sorry.” The words rolled out of her mouth lazily. Her entire being was beginning to feel sleepy.
“It’ll happen again,” her partner stated simply.
“No it won’t!” She cried in earnest, using the last of her strength, both physical and mental, to sit up quickly and confront the accusation.
“I won’t let it! I don’t want to hurt you! I meant it when I said I was sorry...” She hung her head down low and turned her gaze away from his. Beneath the blanket, her hands fidgeted: she knew what he said was true.
“I know you’re sorry,” He said calmly, “But that hasn’t stopped you before. I'm not going anywhere but you have to accept that it has and will happen again.”
She wanted to explain to him that it was not her who was creating the misery that he felt. She wanted to tell him that she felt possessed every time it happened. She wanted to make everything better just as quickly as she had made everything terrible and unhappy. But she also knew that this was not how it worked in the real world. Though he did forgive her, she had created wounds within him that were still bleeding and would soon scar over, just like all of the other times she had hurt him because of her illness.
She was vaguely aware of the monster, eyes glowing white-hot with unquenchable hatred, as it clung to the otherworldly precipice beneath her. She ignored it and closed her eyes. It’s strength failing, the monster lost its grasp upon its already unsteady hold and plunged to the bottom of the deep dark canyon of her subconscious mind. The storm that had been raging in her brain had calmed to a light, soothing drizzle. The skies in her mind were grey, just the way she liked the earthly skies. She was calm and drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Do you want me to put on ‘Cosmos’?”
“Mmmhmm.” She opened her eyes halfway.
“Okay,” He handed her the remote for the TV so that she could control the volume and took the Playstation controller so that he could turn Netflix on for her. Carl Sagan’s ‘Cosmos’ was one of her favourite shows to fall asleep to and sleep was something she desperately needed. He found it in the Instant Queue and pressed the ‘Play’ button. Soothing music began to pipe out of the TV speakers.
Her partner kissed her on the cheek. Bleary-eyed, she reached up for a hug. He bent down and accepted it.
“I... I really sorry, babe,” She managed.
“Take a nap,” He said as he broke the embrace.
“What you gonna do?”
“I’ll be in here soon. I’m going to go get online for a bit first, though.”
“Mmmmokay.” She tried to lock her gaze onto the TV but her eyes began to slowly shut.
“I lub ooo.” Her speech was significantly slurred.
“I love you too. Go to sleep.”
He left the room and sat at his computer desk. She could still see him sitting in his office if she tilted her head down a bit. It made her feel safe to know that he was there. She snuggled down into her Nightmare Before Christmas pillow and tried to focus on the calming voice of Carl Sagan.
Sleep overcame her and, for the next few hours, she knew nothing but dreams.
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