I discovered last week that the happy pills carry a black box warning for a reason, and of course I hit it, and I hit it hard. The PS has been incredibly patient throughout the whole ordeal, holding on through a phone line as I reached the lowest at which I have ever allowed anyone to see me and uttered words I swore I’d never say. She stayed in contact throughout the night during the worst of it, and checked in on me the next morning as I made my way to a working interview, which I somehow passed with flying colors despite the previous night’s drama.
The pills brought on exactly one week of pleasant relaxation, followed by exactly one week of mind-numbing death wishes and desperation. It ended as abruptly as it came on, but the heightened flashbacks that were set in motion didn’t dissipate so easily and on Saturday night, I texted a coworker looking for someone to cover my shift the following morning. I also texted a friend looking for someone to cover my isolation. Neither could help.
My neck got intimately acquainted with a length of line shortly thereafter and I awoke some time later, the plan—ill-devised in such frantic impulsiveness—having gone predictably wrong once I blacked out. I have only a hazy recollection of any of it, but the lingering feelings of self-disgust and humiliation are crystal clear.
And then there was yesterday.
I arrive at work, where the vet and I wind up discussing therapists and medications and mental turbulence, as it has been a trying week for her son as well and she is, at that moment, awaiting a call from Grady’s ER. She asks why, when the brain acts out, it has to be in violence and destruction instead of extreme good deeds. We joke of building entire homeless shelters in a night, of being able to leap tall buildings in a single manic state, and we go on to devise a business plan for a nighttime housecleaning service (since it’s always the night that seems to bring things to a head). We settle on “Crazy Cleaners: We Sweep While You Sleep,” and are perhaps too amused by our cleverness. It is a rainy, chilly day but not a bad one. In fact, it isn’t until our final stop for the day that things go wrong.
The clients have muzzled their dog, but give no warning as to their cat’s disposition. Within seconds, the cat, unusually talented at twisting in his own skin, turns into a flying frenzy of teeth and back claws. It is far from unexpected—cats are always presumed dangerous until proven harmless—but nonetheless, I am clawed and the owner immediately jumps in, only escalating the cat’s aggression and destroying what little control of the situation I have left. The man is severely bitten, and in getting the cat away from him, I am fairly mauled as well. With blood pooling on the table and running off onto the floor, and yet more being slung upon nearby displays, I succeed in getting the cat back in his carrier and turn to the man, who is lightheaded already from his profusely-bleeding wounds. It is then that his wife remarks, “You know, the cat did this last year, too.” I am too dizzy with adrenaline to do anything but stare at her in disbelief before moving to tend my own wounds.
Sitting in the lobby of the emergency room two hours later with crudely taped and bloodied hands, I reflect that of all the ways I thought I’d wind up in the ER this week, this was not a possibility that had crossed my mind. I am pleased at least to see that SVU is on the television and remark to all of Facebook that if nothing else, I can still watch my show while I wait.
In triage, I keep my tongue in my cheek, and my nurse and I banter through most of the vitals-checking and history-taking. She forces me onto the scale with a gleeful grin in response to my statement that I think my weight is 126 but I don’t really want to know for sure. We discover that I weigh nothing close to it, and I joke that at least something good has come of the ordeal. In answer to her question of any self-administered treatment, I tell her I flushed the wounds with alcohol and taped them up over ample triple antibiotic ointment. She turns to stare at me, asks if I just crave pain and torture, and adds that there is apparently a tough streak behind this pretty face.
An exceedingly wrinkled nurse cleans my wounds, wincing at the pain she is sure I’m feeling. She shakes her head and says she won’t be taking my job from me any time soon, while another nurse hands me antibiotics and pain meds in the form of horse pills. She brings also a tetanus booster and I promise to be a better patient for my shot than mine was for his. She laughs, counts down to the injection, and then leaves to find discharge instructions. I curl up in my chair and doze, content with my music, until it is—finally, hours later—time to go home.
Today, a scarf hides the bruises around my neck, and bandages hide the bite marks on my hands and wrists. I hold a pen with two shaky hands to sign attendance rosters, and employ two unsteady fingers to type class notes. My manager asks how I even got myself to school.
Life goes on, I shrug.
Because it does. Always.
