Not Afraid of Death
It's not death I'm afraid of.
I never understood why people feared it. It's just the absence of everything, a vacuum, nothingness. Life, on the other hand, flat-out terrifies me. I don't know if it's the twists and turns that seem immense and complex and frightening, or if it's a fear of being alive and lonely. I've spent many an evening, alone in my apartment, sitting in the tub at 3am, hoping to overcome the wretched force of insomnia. There have been nights where I couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand the silence and the loneliness. Those were the nights that I sat with the knife in my hands, fondling its sharp precision, nicking my fingers as a test to see if I could make the blood flow. For reasons I don't understand, I never actually went for my wrists. Maybe I just didn't have the follow-through that was necessary to make it happen. But it was enough to scare the wits out of my shrink and get me put on meds.
I'm now taking a cocktail of pills, mind-numbing concoctions that help me sleep, wake up, fight my lows and balance my highs. The odd side effect of all of this is an absolute compulsion to wash my hands at every available opportunity. They took away my emotional range just to make me obsessive-compulsive. Somehow I don't think it's an improvement.
The odd part of sleeping again is that I have dreams. I remember a time when my dreams were crisp and clear, but since I started the meds I feel like I'm watching everything in slow motion, as though everything happens behind a gauze curtain. There's no clarity, no meaning, no memorable moments, just a vague sense of hearing something in the distance. For all I know, my dreams may be nothing more than the neighbors fighting or the cats staging their nocturnal musical special (live from the alley... a special feline presentation).
I have no sex drive, either. I could masturbate for a week and never get off. At first it was frustrating, but then I guess one of the meds kicked in full force. Now I don't care. I want nothing. I need nothing. I feel so un-American in my lack of want. But at least I sleep. I sleep a lot, if you must know. I'd be perfectly content to do it full time.
I woke to the pulsing alarm, and wished I'd set it to wake to music. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I should probably have taken an anti-anxiety pill, but instead I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and somehow lost twenty minutes as I stood there naked with a mouthful of foam from brushing. My right hand, toothbrush in tow, had long since dropped to my right side, leaving toothpaste marks on my outer thigh; I didn't notice.
Eventually I realized that my feet were cold on the tile floor, which jerked me back to reality. I finished with my teeth and opted against a shower, deciding instead that it was too cold to get wet and that I really wanted to pull on my sweatpants and thick wooly socks that I once bought for a hiking trip to Yosemite that was canceled because of a freak early-season storm. That was the last time I tried to do anything good for myself, although I don't know if climbing Half Dome counts as "good for you" or "extreme sport". Having not accomplished it, I don't feel qualified to decide.
As I wash my hands carefully with antibacterial soap, I try to remember what day it is. It's not Monday, I'm pretty sure. Tuesday? Wednesday? When you work retail, it doesn't matter. You don't have weekends anymore, just random days off. If it's Tuesday, I have the day to myself. If it's Wednesday, I have to go to the bookstore. I decide, reluctantly, that it is Wednesday, and I let the wooly socks drop to the floor in disappointment. I pull on a pair of wrinkled khakis and a brick-red polo with the store's logo on it. The collar is misshapen and faded from too much washing. I guess they don't expect anyone to be there long-term, so they don't invest in high-quality shirts. I've more than overstayed my time there.
I'm still cold in the short sleeves, so I pull on the Stained White Cardigan. It's a classic, oversized cable knit that looks like it's trying to swallow me whole. There are coffee stains on the right side, near the bottom, from that unfortunate leaky-cup incident at the latte stand. I hadn't realized that the cup wasn't properly sealed at the bottom and I'd lost a third of it to my sweater before someone finally pointed it out to me in the break room. The dry cleaner couldn't get the stains out, and I was depressed that it was ruined, but I decided to wear it anyway. It was still my favorite sweater. Come to think of it, it's my only sweater. And since it's white, it does a good job of hiding the cat fur.
I long ago realized that my wardrobe could no longer include any black. Something had to go: the black pants or the white cat. I couldn't let the cat go; it was the only thing I'd ever met that seemed less interested in the world than I did, and I felt that we were kindred spirits. So out went the black, replaced by neutrals that are utterly devoid of personality. The transition came at the same time I started on my cocktail of meds. It seemed like an appropriate switch, as I had also become utterly devoid of personality.
I glanced at the clock and realized that it was infinitely later than I thought. Shit. I'll be late for work again. I stuffed my feet into my shoes, leaving the laces untied, washed my hands one last time, grabbed my keys and ran out the door in the hopes of catching the 9:27 bus. But of course, I knew that I would miss it. Not just miss it, but be close enough to see it pulling away as I ran frantically down the street, waving my arms in the hope that the driver would see. I suspected that they saw all of the runners clearly, but opted not to pick them up as part of a strange power-trip pact among bus drivers. They knew that they would never get anywhere in the world -- it's hard to get anywhere when you have to stop at every corner -- so they tried to find power in making others' lives as miserable as theirs.
I was about a block and a half from the bus stop when the 22 bus passed me. I started to run after it, and in my head I could hear the driver laughing at me. Go ahead and laugh, asshole. We both work dead-end jobs and live in crappy apartments. If it makes you feel better to prove your superiority to me, then be my guest. I don't really care.
The bus was waiting, idling beside the waiting bench. I got close enough to read the ad on the side before he closed the doors and pulled away. I heard people on the bus yelling at him to stop. He kept going. Jerk. I flipped him off with both middle fingers and threw myself onto the bench in a heap. The next bus wouldn't come for 12 minutes, and the wind was blowing to herald a coming storm. I knew I would be at least 15 minutes late for work. Damn it! Do they hire nothing but assholes at the Public Transit Administration? And do they not realize that they sound like idiots calling themselves the PTA? It sounds like an organization where parents and teachers should be holding bake sales to raise money for sports and computers, not a public transportation system.
I pulled the sweater around me like a bathrobe, shielding myself from the wind and blowing leaves. A homeless man was approaching from down the street, talking to himself loudly about the second coming of christ. He refused to tell anyone his name, and all the locals knew him as Apocalypse. He was always preaching, mostly to himself, about the end of the world and a vengeful god that would send his child down from heaven to destroy the boundaries between earth and hell. I have no idea if any of this is factually accurate; I never read the bible and have no intention of doing so, in spite of the fact that I love to read. I just know that Apocalypse makes a pretty compelling case. Except for the fact that he's nuts and hears voices, I think he'd make a good prophet.
The next 22 bus appears, and I fumble for my pass in my pocket as I climb the stairs. The bus starts moving before I find a seat, and I lurch towards an empty row. I fall into the aisle seat without any hint of grace, banging my elbow on the metal pole on the way in. Tingling pain radiates down my arm like electric shocks. This is just what I need today. With my luck I probably broke my elbow. I try to sit quietly and not think about all of the germs on this bus, and how much I need to scrub my hands clean.
I never understood why people feared it. It's just the absence of everything, a vacuum, nothingness. Life, on the other hand, flat-out terrifies me. I don't know if it's the twists and turns that seem immense and complex and frightening, or if it's a fear of being alive and lonely. I've spent many an evening, alone in my apartment, sitting in the tub at 3am, hoping to overcome the wretched force of insomnia. There have been nights where I couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand the silence and the loneliness. Those were the nights that I sat with the knife in my hands, fondling its sharp precision, nicking my fingers as a test to see if I could make the blood flow. For reasons I don't understand, I never actually went for my wrists. Maybe I just didn't have the follow-through that was necessary to make it happen. But it was enough to scare the wits out of my shrink and get me put on meds.
I'm now taking a cocktail of pills, mind-numbing concoctions that help me sleep, wake up, fight my lows and balance my highs. The odd side effect of all of this is an absolute compulsion to wash my hands at every available opportunity. They took away my emotional range just to make me obsessive-compulsive. Somehow I don't think it's an improvement.
The odd part of sleeping again is that I have dreams. I remember a time when my dreams were crisp and clear, but since I started the meds I feel like I'm watching everything in slow motion, as though everything happens behind a gauze curtain. There's no clarity, no meaning, no memorable moments, just a vague sense of hearing something in the distance. For all I know, my dreams may be nothing more than the neighbors fighting or the cats staging their nocturnal musical special (live from the alley... a special feline presentation).
I have no sex drive, either. I could masturbate for a week and never get off. At first it was frustrating, but then I guess one of the meds kicked in full force. Now I don't care. I want nothing. I need nothing. I feel so un-American in my lack of want. But at least I sleep. I sleep a lot, if you must know. I'd be perfectly content to do it full time.
I woke to the pulsing alarm, and wished I'd set it to wake to music. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I should probably have taken an anti-anxiety pill, but instead I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and somehow lost twenty minutes as I stood there naked with a mouthful of foam from brushing. My right hand, toothbrush in tow, had long since dropped to my right side, leaving toothpaste marks on my outer thigh; I didn't notice.
Eventually I realized that my feet were cold on the tile floor, which jerked me back to reality. I finished with my teeth and opted against a shower, deciding instead that it was too cold to get wet and that I really wanted to pull on my sweatpants and thick wooly socks that I once bought for a hiking trip to Yosemite that was canceled because of a freak early-season storm. That was the last time I tried to do anything good for myself, although I don't know if climbing Half Dome counts as "good for you" or "extreme sport". Having not accomplished it, I don't feel qualified to decide.
As I wash my hands carefully with antibacterial soap, I try to remember what day it is. It's not Monday, I'm pretty sure. Tuesday? Wednesday? When you work retail, it doesn't matter. You don't have weekends anymore, just random days off. If it's Tuesday, I have the day to myself. If it's Wednesday, I have to go to the bookstore. I decide, reluctantly, that it is Wednesday, and I let the wooly socks drop to the floor in disappointment. I pull on a pair of wrinkled khakis and a brick-red polo with the store's logo on it. The collar is misshapen and faded from too much washing. I guess they don't expect anyone to be there long-term, so they don't invest in high-quality shirts. I've more than overstayed my time there.
I'm still cold in the short sleeves, so I pull on the Stained White Cardigan. It's a classic, oversized cable knit that looks like it's trying to swallow me whole. There are coffee stains on the right side, near the bottom, from that unfortunate leaky-cup incident at the latte stand. I hadn't realized that the cup wasn't properly sealed at the bottom and I'd lost a third of it to my sweater before someone finally pointed it out to me in the break room. The dry cleaner couldn't get the stains out, and I was depressed that it was ruined, but I decided to wear it anyway. It was still my favorite sweater. Come to think of it, it's my only sweater. And since it's white, it does a good job of hiding the cat fur.
I long ago realized that my wardrobe could no longer include any black. Something had to go: the black pants or the white cat. I couldn't let the cat go; it was the only thing I'd ever met that seemed less interested in the world than I did, and I felt that we were kindred spirits. So out went the black, replaced by neutrals that are utterly devoid of personality. The transition came at the same time I started on my cocktail of meds. It seemed like an appropriate switch, as I had also become utterly devoid of personality.
I glanced at the clock and realized that it was infinitely later than I thought. Shit. I'll be late for work again. I stuffed my feet into my shoes, leaving the laces untied, washed my hands one last time, grabbed my keys and ran out the door in the hopes of catching the 9:27 bus. But of course, I knew that I would miss it. Not just miss it, but be close enough to see it pulling away as I ran frantically down the street, waving my arms in the hope that the driver would see. I suspected that they saw all of the runners clearly, but opted not to pick them up as part of a strange power-trip pact among bus drivers. They knew that they would never get anywhere in the world -- it's hard to get anywhere when you have to stop at every corner -- so they tried to find power in making others' lives as miserable as theirs.
I was about a block and a half from the bus stop when the 22 bus passed me. I started to run after it, and in my head I could hear the driver laughing at me. Go ahead and laugh, asshole. We both work dead-end jobs and live in crappy apartments. If it makes you feel better to prove your superiority to me, then be my guest. I don't really care.
The bus was waiting, idling beside the waiting bench. I got close enough to read the ad on the side before he closed the doors and pulled away. I heard people on the bus yelling at him to stop. He kept going. Jerk. I flipped him off with both middle fingers and threw myself onto the bench in a heap. The next bus wouldn't come for 12 minutes, and the wind was blowing to herald a coming storm. I knew I would be at least 15 minutes late for work. Damn it! Do they hire nothing but assholes at the Public Transit Administration? And do they not realize that they sound like idiots calling themselves the PTA? It sounds like an organization where parents and teachers should be holding bake sales to raise money for sports and computers, not a public transportation system.
I pulled the sweater around me like a bathrobe, shielding myself from the wind and blowing leaves. A homeless man was approaching from down the street, talking to himself loudly about the second coming of christ. He refused to tell anyone his name, and all the locals knew him as Apocalypse. He was always preaching, mostly to himself, about the end of the world and a vengeful god that would send his child down from heaven to destroy the boundaries between earth and hell. I have no idea if any of this is factually accurate; I never read the bible and have no intention of doing so, in spite of the fact that I love to read. I just know that Apocalypse makes a pretty compelling case. Except for the fact that he's nuts and hears voices, I think he'd make a good prophet.
The next 22 bus appears, and I fumble for my pass in my pocket as I climb the stairs. The bus starts moving before I find a seat, and I lurch towards an empty row. I fall into the aisle seat without any hint of grace, banging my elbow on the metal pole on the way in. Tingling pain radiates down my arm like electric shocks. This is just what I need today. With my luck I probably broke my elbow. I try to sit quietly and not think about all of the germs on this bus, and how much I need to scrub my hands clean.
posted by Ali at 9:03 AM
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