Collapsed Bridge

Shut the fuck up. 

I was sitting at my desk. It was Tuesday and Taylor had left in the morning and I was feeling worn. Trying to write. I never had time at my apartment anymore. It was difficult to write at work but it wasn't impossible. I couldn't drink. I couldn't put headphones on. I had to be constantly ready to deal with... well, work. A woman in a cube diagonal from me was going on and on about having a margarita at lunch to celebrate Cinco De Mayo. I didn't doubt she liked margaritas, only that she'd follow through.

Why even talk about it? I thought, staring at my keyboard while she went on and on and on and she chortled shrill and seemingly endless. Just have the goddamned drink. No one cares. 

A couple weeks back I had been staying in the magical land of Last Resort. I hadn't been sleeping, I hadn't been sober. I hadn't been dreaming, hoping, or anywhere. I was spending more time sitting on my bed wondering where to nail the belt with all of my goddamned low ceilings than anything else. It had become a focus.

I went to work. I talked with Sacha and I laughed and I talked with Amy and I laughed and I had started a band and I laughed and I looked everyone in the eye and I only thought my eyes were black and my skin was blue and I was an alien among them. A ghost. A voice they'd eventually forget and a time they'd eventually regret and a person they'd never actually met.

I wasn't an idiot. I understood what was happening. I knew there was a day of sunshine ahead of me. Somewhere. I knew that I'd feel something else eventually. I knew I'd someday think this moment is worth any other. But, what you know and what you feel.

A friend recommended me to a therapist. A therapist recommended me to a doctor. A doctor recommended me to medication. One for my brain, a second for my sleep. I knew I needed them.

Two days in and I was well rested. I was cleaning up my yard. I was a little jittery, and I was a little clouded, but I thought, maybe I'll go sober.

I did.

And everything stopped.

No songs came from my throat. No writing from my fingertips. No paintings from my hands. I thought get wine and I didn't.

People noticed and they ran through all of same meaningless shit words you'd expect.

"Proud."

"Strong."

"Happy."

"Brave."

I deserved none of them. Don't be proud of me because I can't handle my own fucking head, and I'm as strong as a collapsed bridge. Don't be happy for me. I couldn't think. I couldn't create. I either survived or lived, but not both. And "brave"? Ridiculous. I knew my cowardice. I embodied it. Bravery is facing your horror, and I was running away. Or at the least, crawling.

On the fifth sober day, and the eighth medicated, my band had a show. A house party for Shannon's birthday. I sang the songs and while I was I felt nothing for the words. They were only sounds and I thought that must mean they weren't my words anymore and that these weren't my songs anymore and this wasn't my music or band or friends and as my mouth and hands moved and the lights bounced and Paul and Frances rolled through their parts with finesse and ease and smiling I smiled back and kept up the act and felt nothing.

The set ended.

I pulled off the large fleece Batman onesie I had worn through it and drenched in sweat I packed up my gear and thought; have a beer. It's fine. Relax. Have a beer. So I did. Then another, then more and so on.

The next morning I bought a box of wine and two days later I bought another and I kept telling people I was still sober and then when I killed the second box the next day I bought a third and decided I wasn't going to live in a goddamned cloud anymore and that I'd know my own thoughts and recognize my own voice and if I drowned I'd drown and it'd be on my own terms. I stopped taking the meds and it was another five days before I thought about where to nail the belt again and I knew then that the horrible little bastards had worn off.

Taylor was coming over that night for a few days and I was looking forward to seeing her, but thought maybe the timing of all of this was possibly the worst I could have arranged. I was going to be a swirling mess, unfocused, not yet clear, not yet me.

Maybe that's for the best. 

Maybe it was. I don't know.