Short Thing #4

seven days

day one

You start taking anti depressant/anti anxiety medication tomorrow.

You haven’t been medicated for nearly ten years. Since you were twenty. Since they made you numb. For eighteen months. Since they took the tears away but they also took the laughs. Since you were so dependent on your partner, of the time, and your parents and your little brother, that being dependent on a drug didn’t seem to be too much of a stretch.

Eight and a half years since you stopped taking them. Since you started, slowly, crying again. Laughing again. Eight and a half years of who you are and getting used to that. And what you can do. What you can cope with. What you can achieve. And what you can’t. What you can lose.

Eight and a half years without prescription medication. And you start it all over again. Tomorrow.

Your GP has referred you to a psychologist. Not so much for the tears. They aren’t debilitating. Its more the constant fear, anxiety, heart racing panic. The fear that you are doing everything wrong. You are saying everything wrong. You are saying and doing all of the wrong things. All of the time. With everyone you know.

You feel out of place. And wrong.

This time, you have to fight the numb, to fight the wrong.

day two

You woke up with a headache.

You knew that you had to, were going to, take a pill that could change your world today. Although all accounts maintain that it won’t, in fact, even start to change your world for two to six weeks.

You’re not sure if you can last six days.

When you spoke to your mum about it, about your fear of the numb flowing back, she said not to think about it. To be aware that that could be an outcome but that you have to be proactive in not allowing it to take over. She had gone to the doctor’s with you and you were reassured by the things that he said. And your mum said. Although, your mum had said she thought you had bipolar.

This isn’t a small time thing.

You have had mental issues on and off since you were sixteen. Or thereabouts. Probably earlier. In fact, you can remember being a compulsive apologiser in primary school. A friend telling you to stop apologising for everything even when you were seven. You remember wanting everyone to like you and crying at camp when you were twelve because your ‘friends’ were going to cut your pony tail off. Because you were too nice. You got homesick when you stayed at your grandparent’s house. You got homesick and wanted your mum. Your dad.

This wasn’t a small time thing. You had been lonely. You had been sad. You had been teary. You had been anxious. You had been nervous. You had been apologetic. You had been mildly insane. For quite some time.

Most of your life.

day three

You woke up with another headache. This time you weren’t sure if it was from the meds or from your head thinking about it being the meds.

On the train you were looking at people but they were a bit blurry. Your head was a bit blurry. A bit fuzzy. The world was just a bit fuzzy this morning.

You looked on the website associated with the drug you are taking. You looked at the side effects and the ways that it works.

One little white pill is working towards changing the chemical make up and break down of your brain. You are taking a little white pill to change your brain.

There is no other brain in the world like yours. You are you because of your brain. You think the way that you think. You know the things that you know. You see the world the way that you see the world. Because of your brain. In your own brain. It’s yours.

It might not be the right way. To see. To know. To think. But it’s yours. And you are special. Unique. An individual.

Right?

It’s all just a bit fuzzy.

Your brain.

day four

You woke up today a bit tired. You read the side effects on the internet yesterday and fatigue was one of them. In fact, you believe you may be suffering from all of the listed side effects, drowsiness, dizziness, nausea, yawning, feeling unsteady. Although a couple of them are irrelevant to you. The inability to orgasm. And the lack of sex drive. They’re irrelevant because when you are not in a relationship, you try not to think about sex. Because you miss it too much. Love it too much. So the side effects related to such are not having an impact. But the confusion, the rest – you have in abundance.

Other than the side effects, you woke up in a pretty good mood. You read your son his favourite book. Then went about the business. Your son’s breakfast. Breakfast dishes. His nappy changed. Clothes on. Then your breakfast. Then your little white pill. Then your dishes.

Then an hour later.

The fuzz returned. And the need to finish folding yesterday’s washing became urgent. Compulsive. Fold the washing and put clothes away. Hang up jeans and skirt, not rolled into a ball and thrown on the top shelf with your pyjamas. Undies in the undies drawer. Socks in the socks drawer. Not like yesterday when socks ended up in the undies drawer.

What were you thinking?

Your headache is back. The fuzz makes you dizzy.

day four (continued)

You wonder if your head is in a bucket of water. You feel as though your head is in a bucket of water. The world is there. You can see it. It all looks in order. But you are looking at it from behind water. In a clear bucket. And it sounds as though you are under water. Too.

But you can stand up. And when you do you have to readjust.

And the bucket of water is upside down, of course, so that you can stand up.

You spoke to your best friend in the world on the phone. And you told her you’d started taking the pills. She said good. She was always the most blunt person you knew. That’s why you loved her. She loved you for the same reason. But you couldn’t concentrate on the story she was telling you. You couldn’t concentrate on the story and on making dinner. You loved cooking. Could do anything while you cooked. Cooking always, always, made you feel better. You couldn’t listen and cook and think about what she was saying and then laugh at what she was saying. You told her you didn’t feel really great. She told you it’d get better. She said she’d call you tomorrow.

A bucket of water that doesn’t spill out or anything.

day five

You nearly had a car accident on the way home from work.

You were driving behind a car and you thought it had taken off into the intersection but it hadn’t and you nearly ran up its arse. You nearly crashed your car and all you could think about was the fact that your son wasn’t in the car. And that you shouldn’t be driving. And that you were glad he wasn’t in the car. And that you shouldn’t be driving.

You went to the friend of the family’s house, the friend that looked after your son while you went to work, and you waited there. Until your parents finished work. Until your mum picked up your dad and they drove to get you and your son. And your car. And they drove you both home.

You were probably not safe to drive. Definitely not safe to drive.

day five (continued)

After you got home and your parents went home, your son started crying. And crying. And crying.

He never cried like that. Well, very rarely at least. And he only ever really cried like that when he was sick. Or really tired. And he had had a cold recently but you thought he was getting better.

But he wouldn’t stop crying.

He was supposed to be asleep. You needed him to go to sleep. It was after seven thirty and he went to bed at seven. Most nights. And he was such a good kid, he rarely cried. Maybe grizzled a bit. But went to sleep okay. He didn’t always stay asleep. He didn’t always stay in his bed. You woke up, nearly every morning, with his feet in your ribs because he had gotten into bed with you sometime in the middle of the night. But that was okay.

He was such a good kid.

But he wouldn’t stop crying and wouldn’t go to bed.

You called your mum. She had gotten home already. He had cried the entire time she was in the car and then some. She told you to burn some oils. Give him a drink. Maybe he had a temperature. Wind. He wasn’t little little anymore, he was nearly two, he generally dealt fine with his own wind. But you tried them all.

He kept crying. Crying.

Your mum said she didn’t know what else she could say to help. And you said it didn’t matter, that you’d prefer to talk to her than to listen to him crying.

You got him up and eventually he fell asleep in your arms while you sat on the couch. Eventually you could get him into his cot and walk away.

Eventually.

But you lost it for a while there.

day six

You went out tonight. You decided that you would be a good friend and attend a friend’s gig. Not that she would even know you were there.

You put make up on for nothing. Really.

There were so many people there and she smiled and said hello. But that was all. But you were a good friend.

You were just a dizzy, tired, nauseated, good friend.

Who could have been home in bed. Should have.

You decided to change the time that you took the little white pill. You wanted to take it at night instead of in the morning. You would then have most of the initial dizzy yuck fuzz while you were sleeping. If you could sleep. Dizzy. But you took it a couple of hours late yesterday. And again today. And by tomorrow you will be able to take it at dinner time.

Then you might feel a bit more like a normal person.

A normal human being.

day seven

You know you should do some writing. You know it will make you feel better. You will feel better about yourself if you did some writing. But you are just not any good at it. Turning the computer on. Opening the documents. Typing the words. Having something important to say.

Saying it in an intelligent way.

You know you should do the vacuuming. You know you should probably dust. And probably change the sheets. And probably bring the clothes in off the line. You know you should probably do some exercise. And take your son to the park. And visit friends. And bake muffins. And wash the dishes. And fold the clothes. And wash your hair. And play more with your son. And read more to your son. And be a better mother.

And not drink so much coffee.

But you feel too sick. Too dizzy. Too spinny.

It’s all just too hard.

Although you woke up fine today. You woke up feeling like a normal person. You decided to drive again today, you haven’t done that since the near accident day. How many days ago was that?

You drove to the market where they sell fresh fruit and vegetables at really cheap prices. But there were too many choices and you only bought a few things at each stall. And you got mixed up. And confused. And bewildered. And overwhelmed. And you bought too many things. And not enough things. And you spent too much money. And you just had to get out of there. Away from all the vegetables. And the people selling vegetables. And the people buying vegetables.

And you got you and your son back into the car and the vegetables you’d bought into the car. And you had to really concentrate on getting the car out of the car park. Out of between two planet destroying four wheel drives. You had to concentrate.

All the way home.

And you wished you were better.

At a lot of things.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011