7/10/15
She checks all the closets, underneath the bed, and closes all the open doors. Every night before going to bed she does the same thing. The headphones shut out the world around her so the only sounds she can hear are the familiar voices of James Blake and sleep inducing music. And when she turns off the lights her eyes needs to remain open. It’s the only way she can stay grounded in the real.
She remembers the night she got caught in the darkness. By the time her shaking hand connected the plug to the outlet she was reduced to a wild version of herself: Soaked in sweat, stuffed into the innermost corner of the room, eyes wide and unblinking, with her heart beating furiously in her chest. The nighttime ritual prevents her imaginative mind from filling in the blanks. “You are safe here”, she repeats to herself. “The room does not change when the lights are off”… “Shadows do not move”… “Breathe slower”… “You already know nothing is hiding there”… “Doors do not open on their own”… “You are alone here”… “You are safe here”…
7/12/15
She hasn’t taken her anti-depressant medication for over a week now. She’s worse and shouldn’t be alone and she knows it. The prescription was supposed to be refilled 9 days ago but her anxiety prevented her from leaving her home. The day began hopeful/optimistic. She even got fully dressed with her keys in her hand but the closer she got to the front door the harder it became to breathe.
Everything from her car breaking down on the highway to finding the eyes of a serial killer staring back at her from her rear view mirror sitting in her back seat, played through her mind as if they were actually happening. This has nothing to do with logic. She knows the chances of those things happening are close to none but it’s her mind that feels it.
So for hours she did this: Looked in the mirror, got dressed, put on makeup, picked up her keys, put down her keys, got something to eat, brushed her teeth, changed clothes again, applied more makeup, walked to the front door, picked up the bags at the front door, started cleaning the apartment, took a nap, changed clothes again, fixed her makeup, got something to eat, searched for her keys, found her keys, looked for a sweater, found a sweater that didn’t match her clothes, changed her clothes, took a nap, fixed her makeup… And this continued from 6AM to 9PM until she finally gave up trying to leave and just went to bed crying herself to sleep. By the third day she just quit trying. Ironically enough, she has medicine for her anxiety but the pills cause drowsiness so she just takes it at night when her negative thoughts overpower her rational mind.
7/16/15
Blood had begun to collect underneath her fingernails by the time their phone call reached the 2 hour mark. He had a point though, if her boyfriend had told her that he messed up his fingers trying to give himself a manicure, that his fingers weren’t getting better, and he didn’t want to show her she’d probably freak out too. Pictures of diseased fingers with nails hanging on by a thread flashed in her mind. They weren’t that bad… But they weren’t good either. Deciding to use dirty toe nail clippers to cut the skin around the base of her nail was a poor choice on her part.
The area had become inflamed with jagged pieces of skin protruding. Its rough and hardened texture agitated her OCD like a mosquito bite between her toes. So she’d pick at it and pull until it became smooth… But it never became smooth. Wherever the tear ended more ragged edges formed. So she kept picking at it. So much of the surface had been removed that it felt like her nerves were exposed, as if she had constant freezer burn.
How could she explain that to him without him thinking she were crazy? “I’m trying to fix it”, she said in a small voice. “But is it helping?”, his voice sounded frustrated and concerned. She looked down at her fingers.. “No…”.
Silence…
“Do you need a doctor?”, he asked. Medical? Psychological? He could have meant both at that point for all she knew. “For what?”, she asked, and immediately regretted the second the words passed through her lips. Her mind could see him rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands. “I don’t know! You won’t show me your hands! I don’t – I don’t understand what’s going on!”.
Silence…
More silence…
She could hear someone laughing faintly in the distance…
Her eyes were beginning to burn. “I could start wearing gloves, maybe that could help distract me.” “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going to wear gloves outside and at work. It’s summer in Texas.” His sigh ended the quiet that followed. “Look, I think we need to take a break.”
That’s how many nightmares she’s had that started that way. They ended with him sitting at a bar with the perfect woman. He’s telling her stories about how insane his ex-girlfriend was. They laugh. They continue laughing even after she’s opened her eyes.
She wasn’t surprised to hear him say those words, she heard it dozens of times in her dreams before. “Okay”, she said in a barely audible whisper and turned off her phone. 15 minutes later she stumbled over the empty bottle of vodka and entered the bathroom. She poured peroxide, apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, and alcohol in plastic surgical gloves and slipped them on. Rubber bands sealed the openings at her wrists shut.
The first alcohol bought her time to put the gloves on. The second alcohol mixture quickly chased the numbness away and replaced it with millions of hot needles stabbing at her fingers. The pain made her hands shake involuntarily. It even made her legs spasm in shock. She slowly sunk down to the cool floor tiles…
Curled into a ball…
Their laughter was deafening now…