Monday, August 9, 2010

Is That a Light I See at the End of the Bipolar Tunnel?

Maybe I’ll write about 1979 and the Betts boys one day.

But I need to get back to the present day and update my current story.

It was a Friday night in late June when my mother picked me up to drive me back to her house,… forty-five minutes south of my own home. It was a miserable experience. I was completely lost somewhere inside my own mind. I had an elevated heart rate,… I absolutely could not concentrate on a single thought for more than a few seconds,… and I cried,… a lot,… loudly and painfully. I begged my mother to turn around and take me home,… I pleaded with her.

Also, there was this,… I threatened her,…. Not with any type of physical violence; I could never,… would never resort to that. But I did actually say—to my own mother, who presently had only my well-being and even sanity at the forefront of her mind—that I would “resent [her] forever, if she didn’t turn the car around and take me back to my own fucking house.” What a fucking ingrate! Very shortly afterward I told her that I didn’t care if she took me back home and I asked her to simply pull over and stop the car right there on the interstate and that I would find my own god damn way home. I may have been crazy, but there was no way that I was going to be dragged out of my house and forced into exile somewhere in the next county. She, to her credit, remained stoic and focused on what she felt was necessary.

I wasn’t improving—even with the psychiatrist visits and the cocktail of medications he had prescribed for me. As I’ve related in a previous chapter, I never eliminated drinking from my daily routine,… in fact, my alcohol use had actually increased since I had capitulated to the wishes of my friends and family and gone in to see the psychiatrist in the first place. Even while actually liking him for the seemingly concerned and encouraging person he was, I still hated that motherfucker. I had grown even more belligerent and paranoid in the five weeks that I had been taking that medication. Without question, I was masking the drugs’ ability to control my brain chemistry. I was degenerating into someone and something I had never been. And now, as a result of my extreme depression and anger, I was being swooped away from my life.

The route between my home and my mother’s house takes you over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Unless you want to go all the way around the bay and take the Crosstown Expressway to I-75 (and add a good thirty minutes to your drive), you HAVE to go over that fucking bridge. Since the opening of its new span, at least 140 people have leapt from the highest point of the bridge in attempts to take their own lives—130 have succeeded (those are pretty good odds if you’re looking to be successful). I am absolutely convinced that my mother was concerned about that portion of the drive, and I noticed her, as the car started its ascent up the north side of the span, paying more attention to my positioning in the passenger seat. I would also be lying if I said that the thought didn’t cross my mind. I knew that bridge and I knew what would happen if I went flying off of it. Fortunately for me, I’m far too self-important to actually go through with any plan of suicide. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I had threatened my wife with the prospect of it at least twice in the last four months,… but I would never go through with it—I was probably just begging for attention and reassurance from her…. We got through that portion of the drive without speaking to each other, my mother and I.

I was exhausted,… both physically and mentally. I hadn’t slept the night before. I had spent the hours leading up to midnight in an uncontrollable rage that scared the ever-living piss out of my wife and the hours subsequently wavering back and forth between panic attacks and fits of convulsive wailing. I could barely keep my eyes open as we got closer to my mother’s house. I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and she demanded that I get some sort of food in my stomach before going to sleep. I told her I wasn’t hungry (even though my stomach grumbles were giving me away), but she wasn’t hearing that. She called ahead to her husband and asked him to order a pizza for me. She asked me what I wanted on it, and I grudgingly told her. Food was going to be on the way, and, even though I wouldn’t admit it, I was thankful. I really was behaving like an asshole.

When we walked into the house, I caught sight of my mom’s husband, Hap. His actual name is Harry, but everyone calls him Hap,… or Happy. It’s a totally fitting moniker for the guy, too. I have never,… not once,… seen him without a smile on his face and a laugh in his throat—this time was no different, and I fucking resented him and his contentment. He has the most distinguishable laugh I (or anyone else, I would venture to submit) have ever heard. It’s truly one of those “hyuk hyuk hyuk” laughs. The first time I met him I thought it was odd. A little later it was just fucking annoying. But now (at least until I had started the symptoms of my utter misery), it’s endearing,… almost serene. It’s inspiring and reassuring that there still are “happy” (pun completely intended) people out there. This guy could whistle his way through a fucking hurricane. His demeanor was absolutely the same as it always is when we got there. He broadly grinned and asked, “How ya’ doin’, Big Daddy?” He had that great big, ever-present smile on his face. I thought to myself, “How am I doing? How the fuck do you think I’m doing, you shitbag? I’m sitting at the bottom of a well deeper than Baby-Fucking-Jessica, and you’re asking me how I’m doing? Fuck you!” (For those of you too young to remember, go ahead and Google the obscure reference,… just go to Google and type in Baby-Fucking-Jessica,…. Actually don’t do that,… the results will probably be disturbing,… and the FBI may come to ask you a few questions.) The point is, I was pissed off.

The pizza got to the house, and I smothered it in crushed red pepper before scarfing it down at a near-record pace. For the past dozen-or-so years, I’ve battled chronic heartburn. (Super,… my two favorite foods are Italian and Mexican,… every time I eat anything spicy, I have to chew at least two or three Pepcid AC’s before going to bed or I’ll wake up with a sensation of pain in the middle of my chest so indescribable that I won’t even try. And I didn’t have any god damn Pepcids,… neither did mom.) It was about 8:30 pm, and I didn’t think I could keep my eyes open much longer,…. Except for this: both mom and Hap were enjoying a nice, stiff Vodka Gimlet. In addition to not eating since the previous night, I hadn’t had a beer all day. I saw them drinking their cocktails and Holy-Shit-On-A-Popsicle, I wanted one now. I knew that Hap kept a regular supply of beer in his refrigerator in the garage. He usually carries two types of beer: Heineken and Natural Light. I don’t like either—the first has an aftertaste that I don’t care for, and the second is just piss water. But I thought about going out there and grabbing one for a solid minute. I decided not to (what???). I went to the guest room instead.

My mother has this really cool accessory in the guest room. It’s a little box from Brookstone that plays relaxing noises to fill up the silence. Babbling brook,… rolling beach crests,… rainy afternoon,… and a couple of others that I don’t remember (I can’t recall ALL the details, people, kiss my ass). Mom came into the room right behind me. She is such the consummate host that she needs to ensure everybody’s comfort when she has visitors. She explained how to operate the TV and the ceiling fan and where the extra pillows were. “Jesus Christ, woman,” I thought, “I’ve made it forty-three years in this world,… I think I can figure out a fucking ceiling fan!”

And I went to sleep. The exhaustion would have to substitute for the alcohol as a sleeping aid for this night. With all of the racing thoughts in my head—and with the knowledge and fear of the middle-of-the-night heartburn I was going to suffer through—I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I had made it an entire day without drinking.

Next time,…. Five More Days Here?

No comments:

Post a Comment