Bipolarland, Texas part 7

 

5

It’s afternoon already, the next day. I slept for about twenty-four hours. No matter; there’s nothing else I can do. I can’t think of anything. I could use more sleep, though.

The dreams this time are a continuation of last night’s. I’m remembering the time my mom said, “Get in the car, you’re coming to church now.” I said, “If I’m going to hell anyway, why bother?” I was twelve years old. And I didn’t intend to waste the life I had left before going to hell forever.

Mom slapped me and dragged me by my hair to the car.

Sarah, Jules and all my other friends, it seems, are talking in the living room, really loud, and laughing. The wall shakes. Sarah has really warmed up to them, talking ten miles a second and laughing uproariously. She never did that with me. My social skills must be awful. And I left her there for my friends to find her and think she was someone breaking in, instead of introducing her to them.

Now Geoffrey’s banging on my door telling me that they’re ordering pizza and then he’s going to try and install the plumbing for the autopsy table. I would have been so excited at this before. Like yesterday. Or was it the day before? Now I don’t care anymore. I want so badly to care, but I don’t.

I reflect on my dreams. I don’t fall asleep this time, but I think. I think about my mom. How she was so church-going-proper, but she had an abortion when she was a teenager, and then told me not to ever have an abortion or she’d disown me and I’d go to hell. The hypocrite! And she’d already written me out of her will at that point; I’d seen her will when I’d snooped in her room. She didn’t want me to KNOW that she’d written me out of her will though, because she wanted to use the inheritance to control me. The inheritance I would never get anyway.

Not that it matters. I don’t want her to die, and I don’t want her stupid inheritance. But she lied to me, trying to control me, and so maybe… maybe I do want her to die.

I’ve never been pregnant, but I wouldn’t have an abortion unless my health or life were in danger or the fetus just wasn’t viable yet… as in, no brain. But that wasn’t good enough for her.

And there’s more hypocrisy… she flies a fucking KKK logo from her fucking plantation house (which of course she had her wedding in, complete with hooped-skirted Southern-belle bridesmaids… I was forced to be one of them) and says blacks are less intelligent, yet then she goes and says we’re all equal in the eyes of the Lord, and quotes that quote from the Bible that says male and female, Jew and Gentile, etc. etc. are all the same in God’s eyes.

They’re yelling through my door that I should just come out and join them; why am I ignoring them? That I should be excited that Geoffrey is going to give my island counter its own plumbing. I would have been thanking him for how sweet he is normally, even though they all use that autopsy table/island counter. I feel so bad for them, especially Geoffrey and my boyfriend Jakub, that I start to cry.

“What’s wrong! Just open up!”

I love you all, Geoffrey, I really do, but I have no energy, I want to say.

For some reason, I just don’t say it. I continue to cry.

Jakub speaks: "Cummon out. You gotta eat if you’re gonna drink.” He thinks I’m drinking his private stash, which he stores in my closet. That might be a good idea, actually. It might make me more happy and social and motivated, especially added to my Celexa.

My Celexa! I haven’t taken it in… what? Let’s count: three… five… seven days. It hasn’t registered till right this moment that I’m having brain zaps, light nausea, bugs crawling under my skin, a slight tremor, mood swings, and last but not least, constipation. No wonder I felt so awful. I mean… MOOD SWINGS!

Where’s my Celexa? Okay; my bottle of pills is over here. On the window ledge.

Full to the brim.

But it’s almost the end of the month. It’s almost time to get more.

How long have I not been taking my pills for!???

It was… January. January 30th or 31st. I decided to stop taking them because I was nauseated all the time, even when I ate a whole meal with my daily tablet. And, more importantly, it made me worse. I was suicidal. Never before in my life had I been suicidal. And I didn’t need them so badly I couldn’t go a few days without them. I was going to tell Dr. Barnes, the psychologist, about it as soon as I got to his appointment in a week’s time. But every week I forgot to tell him, because we were so busy talking about other problems, my issues, my emotional baggage. And the weeks turned into a month.

And I began to get more depressed. At least not as depressed as the Celexa made me, though. But dammit; I should have remembered to ask for something else right away!

Which brings me back to Dr. Barnes’s office for an emergency visit.