Down the Rabbit Hole

The Prayer

 It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. For the last several weeks, I haven’t been able to put into words what I’ve been feeling. It was a strange malaise of being half-asleep… What’s changed today? Insomnia.

Last night….

I find myself awake. There is no time. Only the dark. This time, I am not restless. I am not angry. I am merely aware. The sound of the rain. The sound of the dogs downstairs as their masters leave for work. It’s not yet dawn. The sound of my own heartbeat. There is no specter of death to haunt me. There is no worry. There is no ghost. Just me. I roll over and sleep for a few minutes. I dream of cutting open onions, careful how I slice the skin. It’s mundane and I wake up again. I think about the prayer I said before I slipped into bed.

Normally I don’t pray. Inside my own head, my need for God does not outweigh my own skepticism. God cannot surmount my doubt. Tonight is different. I clasp my hands together and I apologize. I apologize for wanting too much. I apologize for believing I have purpose. I wish to be smaller, simpler, satisfied with nothing. I feel like Job. I’m sorry for wanting a home of my own. I’m sorry for wanting a family, for wanting love. I’m sorry for wanting a profession I like. I’m sorry for believing I was good enough to have those things. I’m sorry for always wanting more. I ask God to remove my baser desires. Let me be satisfied with working as many dead end jobs as possible. Let me be satisfied with only surviving. Let me be satisfied with hand outs. Remove my pride. But most of all… spare my family. Spare them my baser desires. Do not punish them because I am wrong. The one prayer in which I ask with my whole heart. Every voice in my head is silent except for that.

I don’t know if it was right. But I am awake. And I am the same. I still want. And I’m still falling.

The Very Last Mood

                I don’t know if anyone has noticed that I no longer post mood journal entries.  Instead of ranting, why not a little story?

                And so it begins.

                The doctor’s office is always sterile.  The fake plants are as glossy as the magazines.  The receptionists are guarded by a sliding glass window.  I show up as I always do, usually late and with a handy excuse in case anyone asks.  “Hi,” I say, “I’m a little late,”  The woman look at me without expression and simply says, “Yes, you are,”  I say nothing in reply.  I wait as I always do for my doctor.  I expect Doctor Smith and his kindly detachment to my problems.  I like him.  And right now, I need him.  In whatever stage or phase I’m in, I need someone to care, just a little.  A woman opens the door and calls my name, I feel betrayed.

                She is blonde, dressed in a lavender pantsuit.  She is not detached in the way serial killers and sociopaths are detached.  Instead she nods and attempts to connect with my gaze.  I am waiting for her to ask me the same list of questions they always ask me.  She doesn’t.  Simply, “How are you doing on the medication?”  I answer as neatly as I can, “They aren’t working like they used to,”  I expect her to be interested.  She isn’t.  She suggests increasing my dosage.  Then she goes on to claim that my good feelings earlier may have been a coincidence and the medicine is taking longer to work.  She also claims that while increasing my dose has no scientific evidence of working, she finds it does.  I can feel it in her tone,  “It’s all in your head, taking another and pretend to be happy,”  I’m not happy but I consent.

                I get the hell out of there.  A few days went by and I miss two doses.  I wonder if there is a subconcious reason.  Do I no longer believe in the power of anti-depressents?  Are they a God that’s been dethroned?  If a doctor believes good moods are coincidences, then what is the pill for?  To increase my chances?  Am I taking medicine or a lottery ticket every day?  I don’t think about it too much.  Instead I sleep.

                The dishes pile up.  The laundry overflows.  And I sleep.  If I wasn’t the one designated to cook or clean, would I still be useful to the human race?  If I didn’t serve a function, would it matter if I ever woke up?  I wish I was useful in the way other people are useful.  I wish I was sought out like others are sought out.  Instead I do bullshit chores, take bullshit pills and wonder why, despite my efforts, nothing happens.

Eyes Averted

                “I have something important to tell you,” I say, eyes averted.  “I need you to hear me out.  Just don’t judge me, not yet,” I become very interested in the nearby parking lot.  So many cars today, I wonder if there’s a party somewhere.  My mom simply stands in front of me, watching me.  Her cigarette dangles in her hand.  “Yes, sweetheart?” she says with concern in her voice.  I remain stoic or at least in my own mind.  At first I stumble in my words and then I spit them out as quickly as possible.  I tell her about my compulsive behavior.  I tell her about the money I’ve spent.  I tell her about the growing pattern, how it’s gotten worse, how I’m afraid.  Minimal tears this time, I’m thankful.  At least I can get the words out without sobbing for an hour in between.

                I finally look away from the parking lot and look my mom in the eyes.  They are full of sympathy.  “Why would you think I’d judge you?  You know how much I drink every night,” she says.  Oh god, she mentioned the drinking, I think to myself, why couldn’t I have stuck with compulsive eating?  It was so much cheaper.  I don’t really know how to answer her.  She doesn’t seem to understand the absurdity of the situation.  I’m living with my mother, going to school yet again, while my peers are all married with children.  I was the smart one.  I was the creative one.  I was the one with all the promise.  And what did I do with it?  What did I have to show?  A lot of receipts and a static waistline; a kid with no father and no life outside of my own pain…  Why couldn’t she understand?  This wasn’t supposed to be my life.  And as much as I tried to explain, she simply looked at me, full of concern.  I averted my eyes.

                I become absorbed with the parking lot again.  Sinking into the deck chair with the dog at my feet, I feel so defeated.  She takes my hand and says, “You didn’t abandon me, why would I abandon you?”  I don’t let go but I can’t look up.  We were both screwed up and unable to really help each other.  I couldn’t stop her drinking.  She couldn’t stop me spending.  But we were there.  I suppose that’s enough.  “We’ll get through this,” she assures me.  I try to nod or meet her gaze but I can’t quite yet.  I suppose I should count myself lucky that I have someone on my side.  Yet all I can see, past her, past the porch, past the parking lot, is the long road ahead full of peril and obstacles…  When does it end?  When is it enough?

                I look back up to her.  She hasn’t changed.  The cigarette still dangles in her hand.  I haven’t changed either.  And that’s what scares me.