No human beings, except the courageous and experienced blind, are able to sense much in a strange place where they cannot see, but with rabbits it is otherwise. They spend half their lives underground in darkness or near-darkness and touch, smell and hearing convey as much or more to them than sight.
“So, how are you?” You try to sound as if you care, but the effort is lazy and instead you give the impression you are only pretending to care out of some professional obligation, not that I was expecting anything more. You scribble, not write, on your paper, probably trying to remember my name.
“I’m fine.” In your first four words spoken to me, I’ve already learned to imitate your disinterest.
“What brings you here then?”
“My doctor told me I should come.”
“Did something happen to cause your doctor concern?” Surely you couldn’t be that ignorant. You have most likely been in contact with the doctor who referred me to you, which means you have an opinion on why I am here and, unless you consider me an idiot, you must know that I know that you know, so your question is little more than an insulting attempt to manipulate me into some pre-determined discussion.
“I would have thought you would already have that information.”
“I thought you might want an opportunity to explain the situation more completely, in your own words.” You’re expecting me to say something negative about myself - sad, lonely, unloved, ugly- typical things that depressed people say. You don’t even know me yet and I’ve already been categorised. It’s not like you’re making any valiant attempt to challenge the stereotype of psychiatrists. A balding, middle-aged, Caucasian male wearing wire glasses. Tall and thin with a slight slouch of the shoulders, evidence maybe of a vestigial insecurity developed in your childhood years when being tall and thin brought ridicule from children eager to emphasise your awkwardness. A slight disappointment that yet another person in the world has failed to exceed my expectations. I will never let you see me cry.
“I don’t think I really need to be here. I doubt I’ll be back. The doctor said he would hospitalise me if I didn’t come and I don’t want to be locked up in some dark room, strapped to a bed for no reason. Disdain and pity are two emotions I would rather not be attributed to my character. There’s nothing wrong with me anyway. My life is fine. I shouldn’t be complaining. Everybody tells me my life is fine. Good. It’s a good life, they say. I’m just upset because I didn’t do so well in school this semester. But it’s ok. It’s amazing I made it this far. I thought I would have failed a long time ago.” Shit. I guess stereotypes exist for a reason.
“Failure is a pretty strong word. Do you see yourself as a failure?”
“Evidence suggests I am not a success.” You’re laughing, if you could call a noise so short and abrupt a laugh. I didn’t think it was funny. You could do a better job of hiding your amusement at my predicament. Unless you’re laughing in order to trick me into laughing and thereby forcing me to recognise the irony in my statement. I doubt you are that involved in the conversation though. That kind of manipulation would require effort and you’re doodling again. I wonder what it is you are drawing. Then again, you did spend six years training to be a psychiatrist, so maybe this kind of therapy just comes naturally to you now. No. If you were such a good doctor you wouldn’t be in this ugly office wearing bad shoes.
“Remind me again what it is you study.”
“I never told you what I study.”
“I just like to be sure I haven’t missed anything.” An awkward and half-annoyed half-smile makes a subtle appearance on your face for a moment. Either you are manipulating me again or you have forgotten the content of our conversation. You probably have many patients and it is must be difficult to remember what has and has not been revealed in each conversation. No. I’m new here. You know you don’t know anything about me. Unless you have done some background research and know more about me than I am aware of. I doubt you have the time or motivation for such invested research.
“Math.”
“Math. That’s an atypical route of study.”
“I didn’t plan on it. I was finishing some second year science requirements and was inspired to change my major.” This was a convenient truth. I had been looking for an excuse to change my career path, the end of one line of study looming before me and no perceived future prospects. So rather than work through the possible obstacle of finding a job (in actuality I would have had no difficulty obtaining work; I was well liked by my professors and peers and had what they called an outstanding academic record), this change of direction bought me a couple of more years of idleness.
“You said you haven’t been performing well in academics lately.”
“No. I used to do well in school. Usually at the top of my class.” Math used to be like breathing for me, like hyperventilation, with numbers and formulas moving through my head more quickly than I could write them down. The answer was often apparent to me before I had even finished reading the question. This was probably because the better part of my childhood was passed playing with numbers, designing and solving number puzzles, rearranging and organising digits into logical patterns. I was not a prodigy, however. Nor am I a genius. Math is simply a language, logical and eloquently concise (unlike so little else in life), that comes naturally to me. Or came. Lately, the work has become more of a struggle. The concepts are familiar, I comprehend what the professor is saying and what I read in the textbooks, but the answers get stuck in my head and when I try to get them out and onto paper, the effort is forced and what comes out comes out tangled, if anything comes out at all.
“What’s different now?” The thoughts are too fast. They jump ahead, not following any linear structure of time and I forget what was in between.
“Nothing really. Nothing I shouldn’t be able to handle. I guess I’ve already peaked as far as academia is concerned and now I can’t compete at the higher levels. Everybody used to say I was smart. I never believed them. It seems that I was right.”
“Do you think your depression might be having an effect on your class work?”
“No. I’m not depressed.”
“What was the reason for you family physician referring you here then?”
“I’m not lying. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Ok. But what did the doctor think the problem was?”
“He thought I was depressed.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because he’s a GP.” You’re laughing again, a little less restrained this time. Insecure and arrogant. In under an hour I’ve already figured out the most important aspects of your personality. I wonder if you can say the same about me.
“What caused him to come to the conclusion that you were depressed?”
“I told him I was.”
“You just said you weren’t depressed.”
“I’m not. I needed a medical letter to withdraw from some classes.”
“So you lied?”
“No. I told him the truth. He concluded from the information I gave him that I was depressed.”
“You’re contradicting yourself. You just said you told him you were depressed.”
“I’m not being paradoxical. I was trying to be concise to save time since we only have fifty minutes, but now I’ve had to use even more time to explain because you’re not following.” It’s not fair that your incompetence should impinge on my session.
“I have to admit I’m not very good at picking up subtle, poetic undertones. For my sake, will you tell me what happened more directly?”
“I went to the doctor to get a note. He asked what was wrong. I told him I had been crying a lot and sleeping a lot. He gave me one of those ten question magazine quizzes and subsequently diagnosed me with depression. He gave me some pills, and my note, and asked me to come back in two weeks. I went back. He gave me more pills and told me to come back again. I went back. He asked if I was having thoughts of harming myself and I told him ‘of course.’ He asked if I was having thoughts of killing myself and I said ‘I am now,’ since in order to answer the question, I had to have had a thought about it and so it’s an impossible question to answer because the only two answers allowed contradict each other. However, he failed to see the semantic humour and at that point, he gave me the option of hospitalization or therapy.”
“And you chose here?” Obviously.
“Like I said, I didn’t want to go to the hospital and I figured I could show up for one session and then disappear.”
“But you already have your note and you still came today.”
“The appointment was already made.” You wait quietly for me to expand on my motives, but that it was easier to show up than it was to cancel is the only explanation I have. And it’s the only one you’re going to get.
“What medications are you currently taking?”
“None. I was taking Effexor but I stopped because it made me dizzy. I also tried Paxil once, but that was a long time ago.” This family physician wasn’t the first who thought I needed professional, medical treatment. The first was a doctor who overreacted when I mentioned a small overdose of pain relievers. And vomiting. For hours.
“Did you find any improvement with Effexor?”
“At first it seemed to help, but it was too much activity.”
“Too much activity?”
“It made me hyper. And when I stopped taking it, there were all these colours flashing through my brain, these thin lines of active electricity and I could see them.”
“Those aren’t unusual side effects. Would you like to try something else?”
“I guess.” Again, like keeping this appointment, it’s easier to follow orders than it is to deny them. All I’m doing is let you write the prescription. It’s not like I’ll have to actually take the pills.
“I’m going to prescribe a low dose of an anti-depressant called moclobomide. It’s a reversible MAOI . Basically it works by binding to an enzyme so that the enzyme can’t break down the neurotransmitters that are associated with depression when they are at low levels. There are some annoying dietary restrictions, but otherwise most people find the side effects to be slight.” I have no idea what you just said. I forgot to listen. This time, and memory, loss has been occurring more frequently lately. “Well, I guess we need to stop for now. How is next Wednesday at nine for you?” I told you I wasn’t going to be coming back. But you said time was up, so there isn’t any time remaining to remind you I’m not returning. I’ll indulge you for now, it’s easier than explaining, but I won’t be here next week. “Have a good week,” you say as you open the door to let me out.
“Thanks.” The gratitude is because you opened the door for me, not because you were listening or helpful or comforting or any of those things you were supposed to be.
..........
There is a world inside my head, full of thoughts and dreams. A myriad of realities exist within it. I live there, an invisible observer to the voices I’ve created. Innocent daydreams are trapped and transformed into sentient entities. Illusions become truths, myths become facts. I find myself numbed by constant contradictions. What used to be a sanctuary has become overpopulated and perpetuates ungoverned. I don’t even know I’m doing it.
Daydreaming they call it. Or, if it keeps me awake at night, night terrors. Until some sound or image snaps me back into reality. I try to distract myself. Read. Relax. Take a bath. My screams are only silenced by tiny blue sleeping pills which make me even more tired which leads to more terrifying fancies of the imagination. I was always under the belief that daydreams were light and lovely. Just pictures. In my head. That’s all they are. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying.
It takes effort some days to remind myself I’m not actually passed out in a dark closet or about to collapse from the dizziness of sorting through every thought for meaning and relevance. But my head feels so heavy. And my eyes hurt from the strain of being constantly open and perceiving adding more bulk to the mass weighing down my head.
I had a dream once that I was drowning. Water. Suffocation. Blue was everywhere. Salt stinging my eyes. I could feel myself being pulled, held under by the water, waves rolling around me, breaking somewhere far above me. I didn’t sink, but the surface was unattainable. It seemed too much effort to try to break free. It would have been a useless attempt anyway. My tiny body against a world of ocean. I wasn’t scared though. Calm. I floated between the ocean floor and the breaking waves. Tangled. It was quiet, peaceful, like being rocked to sleep. My breath, the moment seemed to last forever. I didn’t hold my breath. I didn’t need to. I felt as though I could breathe under the water, as if I had instantaneously grown gills, or that oxygen had never been required in the first place. Light dancing, breaking through the cracks in the water. Falling into a dream. Grace. Loneliness without sadness. I want that dream again.
……….
I wake up screaming. Every morning. As if reality could steal my mind away from me and hold it prisoner in that muted place of sleep. If that wasn’t enough, mornings are made even more difficult because of my recent loss of memory. I can’t even finish brushing my hair because I am distracted by all the other things that need to be done.
In less than an hour, I have to brush my teeth, eat, get dressed, pack my bag, and make a coffee. I can’t make my body move as fast as my mind, so that part way through one activity, I’ve forgotten it hasn’t been completed, because in my mind it has been, and I move on to something else, eventually dropping that activity for yet another. It confuses and disorients me. And wearies me.
I gave up on showering everyday since that was a task that required me to stand still and concentrate for an eternal twenty minutes. The standing still doesn’t make the thoughts slow down either, not even if I hold my breath and close my eyes. Instead, they are transformed into noise that circles around inside my head like different colours of paint being washed down the drain, at first brilliant and colourful, but it isn’t long before all the colours mix together into one insipid shade of brown every art teacher warned you would result if you tried to fix a mistake in hue by adding more colours. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the commotion, trying to disentangle the thoughts that I will forget to eat for days at a time.
One day, when I was feeling a particular burst of obsessive energy and worried I might starve to death because of my not-remembering, I filled the box for each day on my calendar with the word ‘eat’. Only, it rarely occurs to me to look at the calendar, and when I do look I do so without registering what I’m looking at, like a person who has to constantly check their watch for the time. The information, the time on the watch, the names of days, the little notes in the little boxes on the calendar, are so conveniently accessible it negates the obligation of remembering. And if the time or the names of days are trivialities to be recorded in an area outside the precious memory reserves of the brain, then why not the watch itself, or the calendar. So I still forget to eat. And then I get scared and wonder what else I’m forgetting so I concentrate even harder on the task at hand, however mundane it might be, but the exaggerated concentration on one task causes me to forget about all the others that require my attention. So I still forget to eat.
There are times when I’ll catch my reflection in a mirror, an accidental glimpse while I’m brushing my teeth or washing my hands after using the toilet, and the image I see reflected frightens me with its unfamiliarity. Unable to recognise my face, but logically understanding that the reflected face must be mine, even if it is only an image, always makes me want to smash the mirror and release that simulacrum of my self, that self which must be holding all of my memories and stealing more everyday until I can’t remember who I am, until I can’t remember if I am at all.
I hate that woman in the mirror, watching me, waiting for I don’t know what but she quite obviously does know what. If I could make her tangible, there might be a way to fight her, to know what she knows. She is always there, reflected in mirrors and windows and every other polished surface, reminding me of what I am not when she appears beautiful and reminding me of what I am when looking upon her evokes disgust.
She is always there, but I can’t ever touch her.
Sometimes, rarely, I will catch myself regarding that reflection, not with fear, but with a detached curiosity. As I reach out to her, she reaches out to me in synchrony. Two reversely identical, untouching palms on opposite sides of glass. Yet if the glass is shattered, each of us will cease to exist for the other, which would be enough absolution for me, but there is always another mirror. It is like I am chasing myself from two different worlds.
During each day of this pursuit, my emotions undulate between highs and lows. Recently, I have not made it through a single day without at least three mood swings. And these aren’t those plastic, baby-safe swings with less pendulumic activity than a dead fly on sticky tape hanging from the kitchen ceiling of a house in the still heat of summer. These are the swings in an abandoned park hanging from rusty chains so that the higher you swing, the greater the risk on the entire contraption falling apart and launching you face first into gravel that grinds under your skin and settles there as a foreign object for as long as your body exists. And the highs are no more tolerable than the lows that come before and come again after, and in between there is only the ennui of contentment.
Mania isn’t the euphoria you would expect it to be. At times, all that extra energy can be productive, depending on how clean you really need your walls to be at three in the morning. Mostly though, it’s akin to being tickled to death. Sure, you’re laughing, but really you’re in excruciating pain about to lose consciousness due to lack of oxygen.
Sometimes, the highs are less high and the lows are less low so that I don’t notice the shifts with such dramatic force, especially when going from a high to a low, but mostly it’s as if there is some creature inside of me trying to claw its way out. I fall to the floor, convulsing and screaming, possessed by the evil whose birth will bring with it shadows and tears and paralyzing terror.
In the middle, between hysteria and despondency, is an uncertain stability, a dizziness analogous to standing on a swaying bridge and looking down at a turbulent river. There are times when I believe this will be how my life ends, in exhaustion from trying to discern reality and fantasy, reality being what remains when you’ve forgotten your dreams.
There are easy days too, when everything falls into place like it does in the commercials for artificially scented air fresheners. These are effortless days that I am able float through as an undead wisp. People will talk to me and I will respond, and an instant later I will have no recollection of the interaction whatsoever, and I still don’t get anything productive accomplished, but I feel better.
Some days, it doesn’t even feel like I’m dying. These days are rare though and might be better described as moments because, sooner or later, I know I will come down and as easy as the day may have been, it doesn’t make the suffering any more tolerable. When I am in the darkness, it is endless and absolute.
I tried leaving notes for myself, neon coloured post-it notes with poems and words written on them, to remind myself that there was I time when I felt better, to give myself something to hold onto until the pain passes. But it didn’t take long, minutes, hours, until the shadows reclaimed their dominance and all the colourful reminders of What is Good were exposed as lies and were violently removed from whatever surface they were pasted to - walls, fridge, computer screen, milk carton – anything I was likely to come into contact with. So it just seemed easier to not put them up at all anymore.
At night, when I am in bed waiting for little blue pills to deliver me into unconsciousness, I lie very still and close my eyes because even in the dark, with the city lights filtering through my bedroom window, there is still too much stimulus.
Unfortunately, I can’t shut my ears against the noise. I tried earplugs but found they magnified the sound of my breathing to a deafening level. I try to ignore the sounds, but they are so loud, and the more I try to forget what I’m hearing, the louder everything becomes.
Every time I hear a siren pass by on the busy road near my basement suite, and this I hear frequently as the house is situated only six blocks from the hospital, I think they must be coming for me. If the siren is from an ambulance, wwweeeerr-ooooo-wwweeeerr-ooooo, it makes me wonder what physical misfortune I must have suffered to put me into such a state of shock that I have no recollection of any painful incident. If the siren is from a cop car, woo-woo-woo-woo, it makes me wonder what crime I could have committed, especially with the murderous thoughts that are always roaming through my mind. I forget whole portions of days so it’s not implausible I committed a crime and forgot about it. As the siren moves closer to my apartment, I desperately search my memory to recall the events of the day in order to prepare a defence for my imminent arrest. If the siren if from a fire-truck, woooooOOOHHHH, I don’t really care.
Or maybe I didn’t break any law, but instead I had a public episode. Shaking, crying, hallucinating. And now they don’t think I’m safe on my own so they are coming to take me away, in an ambulance, or in a cop car, but not in a fire-truck. If that ever happens, I will never speak to anyone again. I will shut my mind up so completely I won’t be able to see what has become of me. The nurses will say, as they pass by my windowless hospital room devoid of dangerous objects, ‘Poor thing. She probably doesn’t even know where she is.’ And they’ll be right. I’ll be far off. In my head. On a tropical beach drinking clear, sweet juice from a green coconut with a red plastic straw.
No comments:
Post a Comment