The Call

I'm sitting on my couch, staring at the syringe.

The phone rings.

It's Dad.

…

I have to force myself out of bed. The pain is unbearable, but I have to work or I won't make my rent this month. My vision is blurred, and I can see those hazy spots you get when you cough or sneeze way too hard.

I make it to the kitchen long enough to down the laundry list of pills I have to take every day, along with something for the migraine, and then I curl up on the floor, waiting for everything to kick in.

Synthroid for my thyroid problems, Celexa for anxiety and depression, Zofran to counteract nausea from the Celexa, and… hell if I know for what else.

I can't remember when I wasn't on so many drugs, definitely when I was living with my parents. Back then, I didn't know how you were supposed to feel if you had anxiety or depression. I thought everyone felt the same way.

It wasn't the crippling anxiety you see on shows—the kind where they have to breathe into a paper bag after something triggered them. For me, I just didn't want to do anything and felt sick at the thought of going outside. I had to psych myself up or relax for hours before doing anything productive or being somewhere with over five people in the room.

I thought that people with anxiety were afraid all the time or that people with depression were always sad. I didn't know it could be any other way.

Then, luck, good or bad, take your pick, found me winning a small lottery of $20k. It was nothing major, but nothing to sneeze at. With all that money came all the wrong friends and all the bad habits that came with them. In no time, the money was gone, but the anxiety came back like an old friend.

Thankfully I had other friends, better friends, one of whom I confided in. They recommended I speak with a doctor about the anxiety. After a few months of warming myself to the idea, I scheduled an appointment.

As I lay on the floor, I realize my phone is vibrating. I pull it up to my face to see the name showing up on the screen past all the blurriness. It's Dad; he's probably calling to check up on me. He's always been there for me when I needed it the most, but I'm in no shape to talk, so I let the phone vibrate in my hand. The slight tingling is almost relaxing, and when it eventually disappears, I miss it.

Time passes in a blur, feeling like hours between the sharp stabbing in my head, and as the sun breaks through the window, I notice the light doesn't sting as much as it would with a migraine. The drugs seem to work.

Despite the pain lessening, I don't want to get up. Today's not my day. Something about it feels wrong… off… like those old days where I used to stay home sick even though I probably could have gone to school.

Again, I force myself to get up.

It's almost nine, and I need to be out the door. I throw on something I know is comfortable, an old reliable sweater I've had for years. You probably have something like that, one with hidden stains or holes only you know about, but so comfy and filled with memories you just can't bear to throw it out because you never know when you'll find another like it.

I fix up my hair as best I can, chew some gum because I think it'll take too long to brush my teeth, and rush out the door.

As I'm leaving the apartment, I catch a whiff of something odd. It smells like boiling vinegar, but the smell is so familiar. Like the sweater, it carries memories with it, but in my haste, I can't quite place the thoughts.

It's too late for the bus, so I catch a cab to work, and the smell of the fabric inside the car soon replaces the nostalgic smell from the apartment. The stabbing pain from earlier turns into a dull throb during the ride, which means I should be capable of doing my job.

At work, bored out of my mind, I can't help but check my phone. Facebook shows me a list of nonsense shared by a collective of people I don't even know anymore. I read each name, and every new one is an even older friend than the last. The further I go, the more I dredge up memories from a different life, and the more things feel off.

Another call. It's Dad, again. At least with the time difference between the last call, I know it's not an emergency. He would have left me a voicemail if it was important.

I can't answer; I should be working. I put the phone down and get back to what I should be doing.

As I work and try not to open my phone again, the thought of that smell from the apartment comes back to me. Why can't I get it out of my head?

It hits me, and my head cocks to the side as if someone punched me. I'm staring into nothing while the realization of what that smell was invades my thoughts like a worm crawling up my skin.

I shake my head as I shudder, and I take a few breaths. I take a moment to compose myself before returning to work. I want work to take my attention; I need it to. I can't let that worm let itself in. Not again. Not now, especially after I've come so far.

It doesn't work. After ten minutes, I notice my forehead is hot to the touch, and I'm tapping my foot so much I'm surprised no one has commented yet.

I need to leave. I need to get out of here and get some air. I tell my boss I'm not feeling well, which isn't entirely untrue, and I take the rest of the day off.

Debilitating. There's no better word to describe it. The thought comes in, works you over until you can't stand it anymore, and you can't think of anything else, and then you're done.

I don't want to, but I do. The contradiction and conflict playing with my emotions are weakening my already shaken resolve. The long-forgotten scars on my forearm itch, aching for the drug, reminding me of what I've been through to get to here.

I'm not thinking about the high, or the crash, or how far I've come. It all boils down to not wanting to feel this way any longer, and it's reduced me to a shell of my former self. The struggle is too taxing.

Oblivion takes the want, soon forgotten in the void, and like alchemy, it's transformed into a need.

I scour my room for an old tattered black notebook. The black notebook with a list of all the wrong types of people. The type you don't want to add to your cells contact list. The type that only takes cash and don't ask questions.

I look up one of those friends from a different life, one I know doesn't talk much, and tell him what I need and where to meet. By the time I arrive home, he's already there.

I pay him the money, he gives me what I need, and leaves without another word.

It burns in my hand as I fumble with the keys to my apartment. Now that it's tangible, the thought throws me back into the fray of a fight I hadn't wanted to be a part of in the first place. I manage to unlock the door, and I head over to the couch, placing the items on the coffee table in front of me. The burning stops, but the battle rages.

I'm bobbing and weaving, but it feels like I'm fighting someone in a higher class, and we're already six rounds in.

My willpower is and always has been lightweight, ineffectual, lacking. It's how I got started with this in the first place. My anxiety gave me a healthy fear of drugs, but peer pressure always had the advantage. I became hooked after the first hit and the feeling of euphoria that came from it.

I crawled my way out of the drug's clutches after hitting rock bottom. Losing all the money, confiding in a true friend, being introduced to the legal alternatives, and some much-needed therapy brought me back better than before.

But today… today's just not my day, and I can't find the strength to keep fighting.

I hastily prepare the drug, and soon I'm sitting on my couch, staring at the syringe.

The phone rings.

It's Dad.