Dead Bee

 A couple Ativan. Down the hatch.

Sage had given me a bottle of them a few months back. Before she left for detox. They sat in my medicine cabinet for a while. I had never been a fan of benzos. I was tired enough as it was. A year before I had been prescribed Klonopin and I just traded them for Adderall (which actually solved the problems the Klonopin had been prescribed for, funny enough). No one had Adderall anymore so the Ativan just sat in the medicine cabinet.

I had worked myself up. A strange and disorienting week. In the morning I called out of work and I was pacing around my kitchen and loudly arguing with myself. I realized Barb downstairs could probably hear me and I began whispering to myself, quickly and repeating sentences and scenarios over and over. Fighting people who weren't there. Attacking my insecurities. Laughing at my defenses. Arguing, arguing, arguing. Then my heart was pounding. I could see it when I looked down. I had been overly anxious since the day before and I knew what was happening.

"It's an attack," I said out loud to myself. "This isn't real. You are okay."

It didn't matter. The abuse spilled out. The arguments continued. The ghosts of people I used to know filled my kitchen and I swung at all of them. I could feel the pressure behind my eyes and the tightness in my chest.

"It's not fucking real. It's not real. It's not real. You are okay. You are doing this to yourself. Stop. Breathe. It's a spiral. You can stop. It's not real."

I couldn't though. Panic had set firmly in and I had stopped pacing. I was standing solidly in my kitchen, staring into the dark pantry and whispering anger at myself, sharp and through teeth. I was hyperventilating and I noticed the world was blurring around me. I knew what was happening. I've stopped it in the past.

"This isn't real. You are making this happen. Stop. You can stop this. Breathe."

Ativan.

"Fuck the Ativan. Coward. Listen. You aren't lying to yourself. You see what's real. You see it. You're angry because you see it. It hurts because it's real. Coward. Face it."

"Ativan," I said.

"No. No no no no no. You want this to stop? Face it. Don't run. Coward. Face it. You fuck. You fucking coward. Look at what you've done to yourself. Look at this mess. You aren't loved. You are pitied. You fucking coward."

"Bathroom." I couldn't move. Locked in the doorway of the pantry. Chest heaving and a blurred world around me.

"Take enough this time. Make it fucking count. Take enough. Nine grams. Nine grams and the fucking Ativan. You want escape? Escape. Coward."

My body loosened and I exhaled as if I had been holding my breath for a long time. Heavy and deep. My body trembled and the pressure in my skull was building. I turned and moved toward the bathroom, all the while muttering; 

"Coward. Coward. Coward. Fucking do it. Coward."

"Shut the fuck up," I whispered back.

My jaw clenched. My breath quickened again. My eyes stung and I realized I had been crying.

The closer I got to the medicine cabinet the slower I moved. The more I felt held back.

"If you're going to do it, do it right. You fuck. You waste. Do it."

I slid the mirror open and fumbled for the container, knocking a few of my other medications out and into the sink. The noise both unnoticed and deafening simultaneously. I found the ativan and quickly unscrewed the bottle. Slid out two and swallowed them dry.

I could see half my face in the mirror. It wasn't me. It was antagonistic. An enemy. A dragon. My father, XXXXXXXX, kids in my schools. It was shadowed and pressuring and it's eyes weren't mine.

"Cry. Cry. Coward. Do it right. Finish them off. Nine grams and all the Ativan. Make it count. Coward."

I had just refilled my prescriptions. I could. I had enough. I could. And then I was sobbing. I felt heaving coming and I lost feeling in my legs and crumpled onto the floor by the sink. Breathing irregular, heavy, and out of control. Weeping. Choking. All static and noise and screaming and shadows. Ghosts and echoes.

A half hour passed. 

The ativan had kicked in. A half hour passed and I wiped my eyes and looked around, ashamed.

No ghosts. No antagonists. No arguments. Nothing.

I was alone in my bathroom, in a pile on the floor and I focused on a dead bee under my radiator. 

How did you get in here?

I was breathing normally and for a few minutes I was focused on the bee. Stood up, went into the kitchen and made eggs.