I sit up, heart racing. I am sweating, terrified. My side of the bed is damp. My thousand thread count sheets tangled. The smell of fear mingles with lavender. (So much for aromatherapy.)
I slide my hand to my right. Richard’s side of the bed is undisturbed, his pillow, smooth and cool. I hug the pillow to my chest, trying to keep it together, rocking to an internal rhythm only my panic understands, working against the inevitable pull of the inky, bottomless place that is both a part of me and outside of me. I feel crazy. Crazed. Hopeless. It’s always the same.
I wake up alone in the dark, with a longing so profound, a desperation so reckless, a pain so deep that I’m afraid my soul will escape if I open my mouth. Instead, a guttural, “Please,” takes voice from deep within and, hearing my own plea, I’m startled to find that I’m still here.
This is when I hear Jane’s voice in my head, “We just raised your meds. This happened last time, remember?” I should have remembered. It always gets worse before it gets better. But I didn’t.
The chasm between who I was and who I am widens every day.
I nod into Richard’s pillow anyway. “Are you having suicidal ideations?” she asks, calmly. I exhale noncommittally. “Do you have a plan?” she continues, hearing my desperation, even through a conversation that is happening only in my mind.
I shrug, still rocking, running through the various “plans” I’ve conjured up, and abandoned, over the past fourteen months: I could chase thirty Vicodin with a fifth of vodka. I could jump from the roof of my three-story house. I could leap in front of a bus. (A particularly messy and public idea that surprises me when it surfaces.) But, no, I don’t have a plan to die.
Don’t, however, confuse this with a plan to live. Because I don’t have one of those, either.
My plans ended on a two-lane highway in northern Michigan - about two miles away from the driftwood-colored house where my life began.
I angle out from under the covers and glance at the clock. 1:37am. “Everything happens at one am,” I think as I find my robe at the end of the bed and slip it over my shoulders. The scent of conditioner, Ivory soap, and white musk join in its weave – a moment of comfort. Familiarity. This is what I smell like.
I acclimate my eyes to the light in the bedroom. It’s clean, organized, no superfluous belongings anywhere – except on the window seat under the lake-facing window. I'm in the habit of leaving half-drunk cups of Earl Grey and more-than-half-read James Patterson or Grisham on the blue striped cushion. It’s my place.
Richard says it’s why we bought this behemoth of a house—not for the refurbished basement rental apartment or for the spacious, airy kitchen, but for that window and a wedge of blue, visible nine months a year.
It's my “mood view,” a glimpse of my disposition: Bright and hopeful in spring; thoughtful in autumn; warm and comforting in winter. Now, I move my eyes quickly past the portal, without wondering about the November moonlight reflecting off the dark water. I’m not in the mood for a metaphor.
Maybe a cup of tea.
It’s morning. 8:45. I haven’t slept. I should call Jane. But as I make coffee, the exchange ensues. She doesn't need to see me. She'll call something in. Magic beans. Proffering hope, promising nothing. "Maybe this is the one!" No, my pain is unreasonable. Vigorous, in a ceaseless game of Red Robin against the white coats. Raise the dose? BID? TID? Take as needed.
A red Jeep Liberty, pulling up the driveway, puts our call on hold. It's Reed, my Physical Therapist. He’s early. “Come in!” I yell towards the side door. Reed looks in the window and sees me sitting at the kitchen table.
“Up!” He shouts through the glass. I exhale and concede, muttering, hobbling to the landing and navigating the steps with toddler-like proficiency. Oh, look! Sam is such a hard worker!
Reed pushes through the door, a rush of cold air behind him. “You look like hell,” he quips, as he darts around me and takes the stairs two at a time. I close the door and grunt in his direction. “But I feel like crap. So, it works out.” I ease my way back to the landing. He laughs. “I hope there's coffee. For your sake.” He pours us both a cup of Duncan Donut’s finest roast. He takes a sip. Mug, warming his hands. Face, in the earthy vapor.
“Ready to get to work, Doc?” He takes off his coat and hat. “Sure, Phys,” Doc. I am an impostor. I'm sorry, the doctor is no longer in.
“Let’s work on your flexibility this morning,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Take off your leg and we’ll get started.”
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