Five Days Worth

Woke up and something had shifted. 

I was tired, and tired of everything. Despite the half bottle or so of Zzzquil, I slept on and off maybe 4 hours. My head was heavy. My eyes still felt raw and swollen. My back ached. Got out of bed, poured coffee and went back to my bed. Couldn't look at my phone still. It had been half a day since I had.  There was something in there I probably didn't want to see. Or worse, there was nothing. 

But something had shifted. Maybe someone had said the right thing to me at the right moment. Maybe I was drained from the day before. Maybe it just didn't matter anymore. People don't talk about how difficult giving up can be. How impossible it seems sometimes. Maybe in sleep my brain had done the work for me. I hoped, I tried. That's all I can say. Will say.

As the morning went on, I drove for quite a while. Out to Schenectady. Into Albany. Out toward the country. Home again. Trying to reset in the sunlight. Trying to iron out the details. Trying to say "Okay, we lost. It got dark. Now we move forward." I wasn't sure that I could, but I had to try.

So much weight in my chest still. 

Static in my brain.

The day went on.

After everything yesterday, I had talked to Sage openly. She asked again to take me to the hospital. I said no. She asked if I wanted her to just hangout for a bit. I said no. If  I just needed to sit and not even talk. I said no. I did ask her if she would take most of the pills out of my house. She quickly agreed that it was probably a good idea. I gave myself five days of Wellbutrin, and a dozen ibuprofen. The next day, today, she came over while I was home for lunch and I handed her a bottle of everything I had.

"Do you have anything else, besides this?"

"No. I don't have anything."

She just looked at me.

"Do you want to check my medicine cabinet?" I asked.

"Yes."

We went into the bathroom and I began going through everything. I hadn't realized how much I actually had. Half full bottles of a half dozen old prescriptions. Painkillers. She took them all.

"You lied to me," she said.

"I just forgot they were there."

"Right. Should I take your knives?" she barely joked.

"No. I'm not a knife person. It's too dramatic. You have to think about presentation, y'know? Where is the peace in spraying blood? Where is the art? What are you saying with it? You have to think about..." I realized I had begun to ramble. Nerves. Make jokes out of fucking everything. Pretend it isn't real. Like I didn't currently have a very worried and concerned friend in my living room with a bag full of anything I could try to use again.

"Are you sure? I'm serious."

"I'm sure."

She took a moment and said "okay. I'm trusting you."

"I'll be okay."

"So, when you get to the last day of the Wellbutrin, I'll bring five more days worth over. Deal?"

"Yeah. Deal."

"I'm trusting you."

"I know. I'm okay."

"You keep saying that, James. And here I am. With this." She pulled at the bag of medications.

"Thank you, Sage. I know I've been saying it a lot lately, but, just, I appreciate you. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just don't... don't. Please."

I couldn't stand hearing that. Over the last couple days, the last couple weeks, people saying it. Well, the people I had been honest with. Broke my heart. The back and forth of never wanting to hurt these people, and knowing that it was the right thing to do. 

Sage left and I sat down to finish my lunch. I had made english muffin pizzas. I hadn't had them in maybe ten years, and I had a deep urge to revisit everything I loved. I sat at my cluttered kitchen table, eating. The crunch. The sauce and cheese. I did love them. Silly little things. 

There are plenty of things and people I love in this world. If you're reading this, you're probably among them. I had been thanking Sage a lot lately for being a real support. And I had been thanking Elle a lot lately for talking me down each time this has happened. For demanding I fight. And, if I knew who you were, I'd probably thank you too. Most of you have been beautiful and good. Most of you have made each day a bit easier. In turn, you each got me this far. So, yes, I'd probably thank you too.

I got rid of the pills. I reached out. I ate the silly little pizzas. 

Beautiful Moments and People that Love You

Went to the waterfront. It was evening. The sun was low in the sky and bright. An orange glow over the grass and the few dozen people walking the concrete sidewalks or sitting under the trees. All together, content in the warmth.

Warmth of the sun.

Warmth of the people near them.

Warmth of the moment.

Black jeans, white shirt, messenger bag hanging loose across my shoulder full of notebooks and pens and a water bottle of booze. Dark and large sunglasses. The fucking stone in my chest. The tightness in my skull. I walked among them, through them. They couldn't see my eyes, but I watched closely all of their small movements. Their smiles. Their gazes. I could read their hearts and I walked through them.

I was out of the house. I was in the sun. I was walking and this was what worked. What you said worked. So I was.

I wanted to sit on my bench but it was taken. I went toward another near the water but it was taken. And the next. I kept walking. Down the path, away from the waterfront, but along the water. Near the tall grass and the abandoned buildings. I could smell the water. The grass. The blanket of ivy covering a wall I had admired recently. The sun shone over the tree tops and struggled through my sunglasses but I appreciated it being there. I appreciated all of it. I kept walking.

Near a parking garage there is a bench. It isn't very private, but it is isolated and it is near the water. So I walked there.

Sat down, set my bag down. Opened my phone. Nothing. Opened my water bottle and wept. Out of nowhere. A rush. A cacophony of  everything I had put away in the last week and a half. All back. All at the surface. All out. 

Couldn't catch my breath. Counted my fingers. 1. 2. 3. 4. 4. 3. 2. 1. Inhale, 1. 2. 3. 4. Exhale, 4. 3. 2. 1.

My breathing slowed mostly, in jumps and starts. My eyes burned and the pressure in my skull was building more and more. 

The image in my brain. The roles. The character. The futility. What point was there to any of it?  

I thought of you all. I stared out at the sun reflecting bright off of the water and I thought of you all. The only reason I could think of, and even then, it wasn't a strong reason. Pain fades. People become memories. You process and move on. Made a hell of a lot more sense than sticking around. Continuously hurting you all. Haunting your lives. Letting you move past me was the right move. The kind move. 

The water rippled and the breeze swayed the tall grass and the air was a perfect temperature.

There are beautiful moments in the future. I know that. But how few. Most of our lives we struggle. We suffer. We say "just gotta make it to..." and for what? A few hours of beauty somewhere down the line? I've had beautiful moments. Beautiful moments with you all. Beautiful moments with strangers. Beautiful moments alone. That's enough for me. The struggle is no longer worth the wait. 

I was choking silently, staring out at the beautiful sun. The beautiful water. The beautiful trees. Tears cool and sliding quickly down my face. 

What am I waiting for?

An image of the Wellbutrin in my medicine cabinet. An image of the rope I used to carry around. An image of the gun I was considering buying, upside down and cold in my mouth. 

Could. Right here. This sunset. 

I choked again.

I knew this moment. I knew it was a lie. I knew what was happening to me. I messaged Elle.

"Are you free"

A moment.

"I am. What's up?"

"I just want to talk."

A moment.

"Okay. I'll call you in five."

The ripples in the water. Smooth and gentle, organized mathematically perfect. Existing, changing, disappearing. I exist. I change. I disappear.

My phone rings.

"Hey. What's up?" she asks.

It takes me a moment. I can't breathe again. "I can't think of a reason not to,"

A moment.

"There are a million reasons not too. You know that."

"Name one. Say one. Tell me one reason not to."

"There are so many people that love you. Please think about them. What it would do to them."

"They'll heal. They'll move past it. People fade."

"No, James. You know that isn't true. People don't recover from that. They might put it away, they might stop crying, but they don't recover. It would change peoples lives, and just so I'm clear, for the worst. People need you here James."

"I've spent my whole life hurting people. Disappointing them. Myself. Letting them down. Constantly. If I stay, I'll just keep fucking doing it. I'll just keep fucking hurting people. If I do it though, it's just one more time, and then never again."

"James. Listen to me. It would destroy me. I would never recover. I'm telling you that. It would ruin my life. It would ruin your families lives. You would do irreperable damage to us all. Your brain is lying to you. You know that. That's why you reached out to me."

The sun was just touching the trees now. I thought that for a moment it felt warmer. I closed my eyes and tried to feel all of the warmth I could take in. Hear every sound around me. Breathe the air in as deep as I could. 

"I'm trying. I'm trying to do everything right."

"I know you are. Again, that's why you reached out."

"I'm on my fucking medication. I'm out of the house. I'm watching a sunset. I'm writing about it all. I'm trying."

"You're doing great."

"It isn't working."

"You're still here. You're on the phone with me. It's working. It might not feel like it, but it is. You are making progress. You're going to move through this, James. Just like you always have."

I swallowed whatever was coming next. It didn't matter. There was nothing I could say that would make her agree. There was nothing she could say that would change my mind. We spoke for another fifteen minutes or so. Mostly in circles, but enough to slow me down. At one point, I told her I was going to only keep a weeks worth of meds in my house and have someone else hold on to the rest until I needed them. She thought it was a good move. She pointed out that that meant I didn't actually want to do it. If I did, I wouldn't be coming up with safety plans. She was right. It was true and it washed over me. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fuck up your night," I said.

"You didn't fuck anything up. I'm glad you called. You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."

"Elle, I'm really in trouble."

"It's going to be okay. You are going to be okay. I promise you."

I had finished my water bottle. I screwed the top back on. Put it away in my bag. My breathing had slowed and I had a headache

"I'm going to walk back to the car," I said. "I think I should go home."

"Talk to people, James. Reach out to people. You can't sit in your apartment everyday. It's no wonder you're feeling like this. Please. Talk to people. Go out. See the people that love you."

"I will."

"Do you promise?"

"Yeah."

I said goodbye to Elle. Put my phone in my pocket. Walked back down the path toward the waterfront. Toward the car. 

I gazed at every tree on the way back. Stopped and watched the clouds hang motionless in the sky. Tried again to read the hearts of the people on the grass. Tried to see the beauty.

...that.

 The longest red light I may have ever waited on. 

An intersection of a small road and a minor highway tracing the edge of a floundering nowhere town. 

The sun forced itself through the windshield and though I had the AC on high, anything not in the path of the air flow baked slowly under black denim and cotton. My jaw was sore and I could taste blood again. My eyes, even behind the thick, black sunglasses, ached like staring at a screen too long. I'd always been a bit sensitive to light, but it seemed to be getting worse over the years. 

A number of sentences had been rolling over endlessly in my mind all morning. Sitting behind the wheel, roasting in the sun. Staring at the possibly broken traffic light, on and on they rolled.

Years ago; People don't abandon you, James. They escape you.

Weeks ago; I needed to escape that.

I glanced into the rearview mirror and opened my mouth, looking for blood. Nothing. 

Finally, the light changed to green and I turned right, over a pothole, over a speed bump, onto the highway. Not pressing too hard I get up to 55 and just slide back into my body. My focus isn't necessary until the exit ramp. 

.

...that.

The word stuck out, and I had been picking at it for weeks. Fixating on it. The indefinince of it. Of what it represented. A situation? A feeling? A person? I couldn't let the word go, but the more I pulled at it, the more I dissected it, the less I understood it. I'm a person who doesn't understand clues or vagueries. I don't like signals, or cues, or hidden meanings. I need to be told, straight and clear, what things mean. What people mean. Because I will take whatever is said to me literally. I will hold the definitions of the words, the way they are strung together, as the truth. Otherwise, I am just left confused. 

And I couldn't understand the definition of that in its context.

The light thuds under the tires as the car cruised steadily over the patches and bumps in the road. The exit was approaching and I put that aside for a moment. The on-ramp was a tight circle, and I held the breaks, slowing to 30 or so, rounding the bend, eventually up and out onto the bridge I had just driven under. Cross one lane to the left. Wait for a small white truck to speed past. Cross one more lane to the left. Before I slide back to my body I notice again my jaw was sore. I could't taste blood anymore, and now I drove at an angle that defeated the direct sun. Small victories.

that that that that that

Is the issue that I do understand it? That I'm rejecting it? Or am I catastrophizing again? Can I know? is there a way to know? What if I

"Jesus fucking christ," I say to no one, turning the corner off of the highway and into my neighborhood. Close my eyes for a second to collect myself. Remember I'm driving. Open them. 

I need a drink. 

More than a fucking drink, dude. You need a gun.

I need a gun.

"Shut the fuck up," I say. 

The car moves steadily and warmly up the steep hill to my house. Kids on the sidewalk with a hula hoop watch as I pass. One of them waves and I wave back. Crest the hill and turn onto my street.

that that that

I pull up to my house, put it in park, turn the key. The engine shuts off and I sit for a moment. Now I can close my eyes. No neighborhood sounds. No wind. No cars. Just the vaccuum silence of the inside of my car. The same image in front of my eyes that's been there for a little too long now. Burnt into my retinas. Eating away at my brain. Open my eyes, open the door. Unbuckle, grab my phone and my water bottle, and head inside. 

that that that

It's always fuckin' something.

Out of the House, Out of My Head

Sage called and told me I needed to get out of the house. Out of my head. That I wasn't doing myself any favors locking myself up in my apartment and if I wasn't going to check myself in, the least I could do is get out of the house. Be around people. Friends.

She was right, but there was nowhere to go. I had been putting away all of my money for bills, which eliminated most possibilities. I could only walk in nature preserves so many times before even they lost their shine. 

"Let's go get indian food," she said. "I'll buy."

We hadn't hung out in some time, but we were friends still, and she was right. I needed to get out of my head. An hour later we were sitting in a booth somewhere in Albany. The menu didn't list any drinks, it only said "We serve Indian beer!" When the server came I asked what beers they had.

"We have Indian beer."

"Right. But what are they? What are their names?"

The server looked at me.

"Okay. I'll just take a beer. Surprise me."

"We have Kingfisher," he said.

"Okay. Kingfisher is fine. Thank you."

The server left and I went back to staring at the menu. I had given up meat a few months back, so my normal options were off the table.

"We should have just got a bottle of wine. It's not expensive," Sage said. 

"I can have him cancel the beer and we can do that. Up to you."

"No, actually I have to be up super early tomorrow. Probably a bad idea." 

There were vegetarian options, but not knowing what anything looked like I was having a hell of a time, and figured I might as well pick something at random.

"How are you feeling?" Sage asked. "Today, I mean." She had put her menu down and was looking at me. I put mine down, but had trouble looking her in the eyes. Embarassing, all this.

"I don't know. I'm not... I'm not at the level I was that day, y'know. But... it hasn't left me. I'm still thinking about it. I guess I always am, but, I'm still considering it. Like... it isn't off the table right now," I said. "I don't think I'm going to, again, I'm not at that level right now. I'm not at my normal baseline either. Just somewhere inbetween. I don't know." I was having trouble focusing thoughts. Articulating. Making eye contact. It was difficult to think about and keep myself together. 

"Right. I'd be furious if you did it," she said. "And devastated. I hope you know that."

"Yeah. I know. I keep thinking about that. The people it'd affect. It's the only thing that really holds me back."

"Good. Keep thinking about that."

I don't remember what I chose. Cauliflower and potatoes in curry. Sage ordered something I kept calling the "brim of a large hat". 

I made a bed of rice on my plate and spooned some of the curry and vegetables onto it, and then mixed it togther.

"Why are you mixing it? Are you a toddler?" Sage asked.

"Jesus christ," I said. "What the hell am I supposed to do with it?"

"You're supposed to get a little of each thing on the fork, not mush it all together."

"This is going to fucking stick with me, you know? Im going to develop a complex."

"Good," she said. "Eat right."

I laughed. 

"Like the salsa," she continued. "Just dipping the chips and shaking everything off? What is the point of the salsa then?"

"A little bit of flavor. Don't need to hog all the bits. Just a taste."

"Right, right," she said. "Toddler."

"I'll have you know though, that I bought chips and salsa the other day specifically so I could spitefully eat them."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You should have seen me. Sitting in the dark. Smashing the chip in, scooping out bucket loads of chunks, and cramming it all in, mumbling 'fuck you, Sage' with every bite."

"Is that true?"

"Really unfortunately, yeah it is. I don't have much going on lately, so I have to find joy somewhere."

She laughed. "Okay, right."

We ate half the meal, boxed up the rest, talked about Sage's contaminated water supply and the ghosts of children she had been seeing that she thought were going to attack her at night. Paid the bill and left.

"Should I get a Boba next door?" she asked.

"Yes? I guess?"

"Do you want Boba?"

"No thanks. Not a fan."

"Oh right, of course. Toddler."

"I bet toddlers like Boba," I said.

"No, I've already spent too much money. I'm not going to."

We got in the truck and drove back to Troy. The shells were still on the dashboard. I kept staring out the window at the clouds and the tops of the trees. Tried closing my eyes and absorbing some moment of peace. It never came.

"Do you want to get a drink?" she asked as we pulled up to my apartment.

I considered it. "No. I want to get up early and drive."

She half-frowned. "Okay."

"Thank you, though Sage," I said, taking my leftovers and climbing out.

"For what?"

"Checking in. Getting me out of the house. Buying me dinner. Talking to me. Being my friend. All of it."

She looked out the windsheild, down the street, out toward the setting sun. "Don't fucking die," she said.

I smiled. "Bye, Sage."

"Bye. Call me if you need anything."

"I will." I closed the door of the truck, and carried my leftovers inside. I wouldn't call. I rarely did. Usually in those moments I become determined and I know that calling slows and halts the process. I know people love me. I don't want to hurt anyone. 

I sat on the couch and looked out the window at the weathervane on the neighbors roof. Checked my phone to see if you wanted to talk to me. Put it away.

I don't want to hurt anyone. 

Soft Rain, Evening through a Window

Outside the window the world was a muted grey. Rain fell soft and constant over the town, across roofs and windshields, trees and pavement. Evening was settling and in my apartment the air was thick. Humid. The windows were open at both ends of the house and fans were on to circulate it, but it just settled in. Things had a way of becoming trapped up here.

I was sitting on a radiator next to a window, watching the occassional sheet of rain wash over the grass across the street, and feeling the breeze on my skin. Daydreaming and hiding all the same.

The Third Person point of view hadn't left. I was still mostly in the passenger seat. It had been a number of weeks at that point. At first it had been torture. Agonizing and seemingly endless. Deep and clawing pains in my chest, stomach, and head. I would find myself hunched over the kitchen table trying to catch my breath. Fistfulls of painkillers to shut it up. What an awful design flaw. The physical pain of emotional turmoil. 

I could feel small droplets of water on my hands and face. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind in the trees. The rain on the street. The calm. 

I had seen it all for what it truly was. Who I truly was. Who we all were. I had understood all that was happening, how it all affected itself, over and over. How we moved and struggled through it. How we fell victim to it and how we never even saw it. We all moved on tracks, with scripts, in roles and oblivious. I saw how small it all was. How massive it seemed. I saw the effects of every word I had said. Every action. I saw them carry from one person, to the next, to the next. I saw myself through your eyes. I saw all of us from above. I had seen it all for what it truly was, and it was agonizing. 

The weight of it. I found myself envious of God. His non-intervention made a hell of a lot of sense now. He was able to be away from it. I had seen it, but I was trapped in it. Screaming at the fourth wall. Smashing my forehead against the glass. Begging God to let me out.

So I tried again, and failed. Again. I couldn't even escape my cowardice even though I could see it plain as day. I could see it and I could see how foolish and small it was, and still, I couldn't escape it. I couldn't escape any of this, hunched over the toilet with my fingers down my throat, begging God.

There hadn't been any cars on the road in some time and the sky was darkening. The deep evening blue overlayed the houses and trees, the homes and love inside them. I sat in the window and wished.

I don't know what initially triggered the Third Person problem. I was a teenager the first time it happened. I was high in some girl's apartment, sitting at the window one night, watching neighborhood kids play in the street. I had nothing to do with the situation but I remember feeling an intense wave of guilt and shame. At the time I described it as "extended reality", and tried to explain it to people around me, but I could never quite get it right. It happened the next couple of times I smoked weed and I gave it up. It didn't happen for a long time after that. It didn't happen until a year ago. I was on the highway, driving, and suddenly I was above it all. Watching patterns and roles and seeing the paths and scripts and characters. I wasn't driving, I was just looking out through the eyes while something else drove. I stayed like that for a few days. It terrified me and left me in a bad way for a month or so after. Then, it didn't happen again until now. A few weeks ago. The day before I failed again.

Maybe it's a symptom of the Alzheimers that runs in my family. Maybe it's some effect of depression in general, or PTSD. Hell, maybe it's simply some innate gnosis. Whatever it is, it's a curse, and I genuinely hope that you never see. It's all meaningless afterward. 

I had to work in the morning. I left the window, went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, washed my face. Made tea. Took magnesium and choline. I was too cowardly to know the truth and do anything about it. So I kept the routine going. What else was there to do?

I drank half a bottle of Zzzquil, turned off the light, and tried to sleep. 

It will all end someday. 

Nine Grams

By the end of the first letter my eyes burned. I don't know if it was allergies or tears but either way I couldn't see. I said a lot of what I needed to say, maybe not all of it, but there are only so many ways you can say "I love you, I'm sorry" before it all turns to noise.

I assumed it was allergies and walked to the bathroom to find an antihistamine. In the mirror my face was swollen and my eyes were red and my hair was everywhere. Lines carved into the street dust on my face. Pills down my throat, into the stomach where it joined the others. Tried to not look into the mirror again. I'd seen enough.

A week ago I had been given a couple of bottles of Wellbutrin. It was my prescription, but I had lost my insurance some time ago, and with it, the medication. I knew I was spiraling without it. If I ever forgot, the people closest to me seemed to know when to remind me.

"Hey, it's not always like this."

"You'll be okay."

Etc. Etc.

Right.

So I started asking people if they had extra. If they could get extra. Just until my new insurance kicked in and I could get back on track. Some people thought I was joking, some told me not to, out of fear I'd get the wrong thing. Some took me seriously.

A week later I had more than enough. Somewhere around 18 grams total. Enough to last me a month or so. Maybe a bit longer if I lowered my dose.

For a week I was back on meds. Takes around ten days, in my experience to start to feel the weight lifted. Ten days is a long time.

And nine grams is all you need.

That's the safe bet dose. 600mg might give you a seizure, but nine grams was sure to get the job done. It would take a while, but it'd do the trick. I had brought them to the living room and poured them out onto the table. Counted out 29 of the 300mg tablets I had. What was left of the whole bottle. Then 2 of the 150mg tablets. Nine grams layed out in neat rows on the black glass table. Opened a calculator and checked my math. I was right. 29 and 2.

I stared at the rows and messaged a friend of mine, who for the last ten years had been repeatedly saving my life. I'd give it one more chance. Finish these letters. See how it goes.

"Are you free?" Send.

Took a row of the 300's. It'd be sometime before I felt them. They were "Extended Release" so once they began kicking in it'd be like gears shifting ever upward. Because of this I decided to stagger the rows. Maybe a row an hour. Don't give my body the chance to recover.

Layed back, weeping, choking. I figured I had ten or fifteen letters I'd have to write. I loved people, and they deserved more than one rambling generic note. They needed to know I loved them and why. They each needed to know it wasn't their fault. They each needed to know.

I began the first letter. 

I remember the first time I saw you... the world was different... I love you and will continue to love you long after this...

and so on.

That's when my eyes began to burn. I couldn't keep them open long enough to type a sentence, and I needed to say these things. I took a couple antihistamines, came back to the living room, and began to write again.

No one has been through more with me...  I know you would have been there... I owe all of these years to you... 

I wrote, in no particular order to the people who mattered most to me. I had guessed ten or fifteen, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was going to be closer to fifteen.

I let my bullshit get in the way of everything and I failed you entirely. I’m failing you again now...  I have nothing but respect, admiration, and pride for you... I am so unendingly proud of you. I am so fucking sorry. Please forgive me.

Finished the third, began the fourth, and suddenly I felt very little. Tired. Exhausted, really. The antihistamine had kicked in.

My friend still hadn't responded.

I messaged them again, now that I felt nothing. "New trick. Tell me to take an antihistamine and keep me busy for a half hour. It works."

A wave of shame and embarassment washed over me. Guilt and disgust. The selfishness of it. The cowardice. What was I going to do to these people I said I loved? How is this anything other than cruel?

I'm not sure even now if it was me thinking that or some innate daemon attempting to do whatever it needs to keep the blood flowing, but either way I sat and listened, staring at the remaining rows of Wellbutrin.

There was nothing now. No urge. No pain. Nothing. I picked them up, one by one, and put them back in the bottle. Closed it. Closed my laptop.

Wiped the tears from my face, stood, and walked to the bathroom. I knelt down, called myself a fucking moron, and stuffed my middle and ring fingers down my throat. I hated doing this part. I wretched and heaved and eventually it came up. Clear and orange and brown and green. Tried to move my hand quick enough. Didn't matter. Three more times, until I felt safe enough to assume they were mostly out. 

Stared at it in the bowl. The mess. Literal and figurative. I could count five partially ruined pills, or parts of pills. The rows had seven, except for one row of three. Two were missing in the slop. That means that in addition to my morning dose, and whatever had already dissipated, I had an extra 600mg in my system. 600 was enough on it's own to potentially cause seizures. I was over 1000. 

As far as I know, I didn't seize. I made dinner. I texted people I loved. I watched tv. I went to bed.

The next day I had an incredible headache.

(Note - This may be distressing, I'm sorry. I'm fine as ever. It isn't my first rodeo. I wrote this for the same reason  I write anything; it is my experience. However, if you are in a similar situation, do not do it. Please reach out. To anyone. Friends. Family. The fucking upstairs neighbor. Hell, reach out to me. It doesn't matter. Your brain is going to lie to you. It is going to trick you into thinking this is the move. It can be incredibly convincing, but it IS lying to you. I promise you that there are a thousand reasons to hang around, and every problem has a better solution than this. Please hang around. You are loved.)

The Adversary Upstairs

It wasn't quite boredom. 

I was stood in the middle of my living room, absentmindedly gazing toward a small folding table covered in guitar pedals. I had been there for a moment or two. Or, not been there. 

No, it wasn't quite boredom. There was plenty that I could do. Take a walk. Play piano. Paint, and listen to a record. Watch a film, read a book, on and on. It was as if a part of me actively wanted to not do anything. It wasn't concious. It wasn't a decision I had made. It was as if I was pleading to something above me to let me do something, and that something was saying "No. You must do nothing. You must be nothing." 

So I paced.

I paced and wished I felt stronger. Wished I felt passionate. Adventurous. Anything. But nothing came.

These phases happen and I had been in a particularly difficult phase for a little while. Another panic attack at another grocery store. A dangerous wave a week or so ago (all the context you will get). A constant and incessant inner monologue detailing all of the things I've done wrong, I'm doing wrong. Displaying all of the ways I could solve it. In great and graphic detail. 

Pretend I don't hear it, and when it is too loud I walk around my house mumbling "shut the fuck up"and I wonder what my neighbors hear.

I don't remember a period like this ever lining up with unemployment before. Usually I take great joy in these breaks. I spend it creating, wandering, living. But I've shut myself in the apartment this time around, rarely leaving for anything other than groceries and a job interview a few days ago. Otherwise, I sat. Paced. Wasted. 

I can't help but notice the timing of everything lining up with running out of meds. The social withdrawal. Leaving the job. The dangerous wave and the Adversary upstairs. I had posted a message asking friends if they had any Wellbutrin they'd be willing to get rid of. One of them did. I'm on day two and it should be another week or so before I get back to normal. Until then, the fight.

The pacing. The indecision. The Adversary.

I layed on the floral couch I had inherited from my grandfather. The windows were open and the smell of someone's garbage was lacing the breeze. No true moments of peace.

Another week or so. 

From the Passenger Seat

Happened again. The third person. The passenger.

Slowly over the last few days I had felt it creeping up and I had hoped that it would dissipate. Too much time on my hands. Too much solitude. Not enough money to be in public. I had tried to go walk. Alone, in the woods. The trees were tall and kind and the sun was scattered over the ground like so much broken glass. It helped for a moment. My brain absorbing the leaves and breeze and greens and nothing else.

On the walk back to the car it crept back in. I became the passenger again. I could see my life through the window and I could see myself and I knew. Who I was, what I was doing, what I have done, what I will do. I knew it from the outside. I could see it from a stranger's perspective.

Another deadbeat.

Lazy. Self obsessed.

Taking advantage of the people around you and taking no responsibility for yourself. Not only making nothing of yourself, but actively making things worse. Actively taking others down with you. Or trying to, no matter how much you'd deny it. 

It was no wonder they avoided time. Why they kept their distance. They pitied you, only. They weren't going to wrap themselves up in your mess. They were being kind. Only.

All around you, pity. At best. 

Days passed and the perspective stuck. Occassionally I could shake it for a moment or two. Driving, folding laundry, sleeping. But it would always come back, like a brick to the chest, knocking me back into the passenger seat. Back to this actual, extended, reality. The way things were when "I" was removed from it.

Are you going to do this to them forever?

Constantly remind them how useless you are? How hopeless? How no matter how much they help you, you will always find ways to let them down?

Even now you can't help but pity yourself. Pathetic. You had it in your hands you fucking dirtbag. You had it figured out. Why did you do this? Why do you ever do this? Opportunity after opportunity gets thrown at you and you walk away. Every time. Wasting years and hope and the love of those around you and now, what do you have? Exactly what you deserve. 

You've been letting them down for years. You'll continue to let them down. 

Or you can one last time.

Will it hurt them? Yes. But it will fade and instead of years, decades of disappointment, it only happens once more. Every time you set yourself up to succeed you fuck it up. You can say you'll change as much as you'd like. Hell, you might even believe it. 

But you can't, can you?

One last time.

From the passenger seat I can only watch. My body is on the couch. My eyes staring out the living room windows. I don't see anything. 

The driver is right. I know it. It's the same message I've been hearing for years from them. 

If you had listened in 2017 they'd have moved on by now. Instead, you've done more damage than you can ever measure and will only do more. If you had listened in 2019, that cold March evening, they'd be passed you now. On with their lives. Some, would never have you around to fuck them up in the first place. Think of how much you could have prevented.

And yet, you're still fucking here.

From the passenger seat, I know. The driver is right. I can see it all from a distance. I can watch me move through time and relationships and jobs and homes. I can feel the weight of me inside people. I can feel the exhaustion. The pain of it all. Of who I am.

From the passenger seat, I know. The driver is right.