Companion song: Possibility by Lykke Li
According to my doctor’s notes, I am Doing Well.
I am eating less, exercising more. I am only a 3 on the depression scale (down 6 points from my last visit, like I’m a damn stock exchange). I am clean and presentable. I look people in the eyes.
I am Doing Well. According to the notes.
My doctor doesn’t ask me what the inside of my brain sounds like. If he’d ask, I’d tell him- it sounds like opening my creaky shed door, like the sound of cottony spider webs clinging to the doorframe splitting apart. It sounds like tepid wind sighing through an empty parking lot. It sounds like the absence of bubbles in soda. Flat.
The Prozac has transformed me, as he said it would. No doubt about it. I work for hours a day on my school assignments, and somehow have enough energy for the gym, for volunteer work, for the books on my ever-growing to-be-read shelf. Productivity is up 6 points, too.
On the treadmill, I think of nothing. I plug into earbuds and listen to sugar pop.
In the mornings, I listen to nothing. My brain feels two-dimensional, like music might punch a hole through my paper-brain, so I unfold my body on the yoga mat and listen to nothing.
Somewhere along the way, I have become a carbon copy of myself. Madame Tussaud’s best work yet. The girl who used to drive fast and scream the lyrics has been replaced by a careful, smooth-wax-formed version of herself. Explosive, emotional meltdowns three times weekly are a thing of the past, something that belonged to that Other Girl, something that has been medicated out.
My favorite jeans don’t sit properly on my hips anymore. I cinch the belt tighter every few days. It should feel like a triumph. It should feel like a triumph.
My brain, on the dimmer switch that it is, cannot feel sad for what I’ve lost. I don’t have energy to spare for these feelings. I don’t even have the energy for self-pleasure, something that the Other Girl needed every few days.
I don’t grieve for her. I don’t have the time. Even in the quiet, still moments that I lie awake in my dark room, I run my hands over the soft forms of my sleeping cats, nestled tight by my side. I wonder if they’ve noticed I’m totally checked out, or if the promise of kibble is too overwhelming to think of anything else.
I used to love food. I used to save recipes, write my own additions in the margins of cookbooks, spend an afternoon making a mess of the kitchen in pursuit of a good meal. Now, I’m lucky to get one solid meal a day- eating is a chore. An obligation. A necessary irritation.
My brain is a peach pit tossed in a rock tumbler, sharp edges worn smooth. A flower with its heart ripped out, petals drooped and clinging to the stem. A spiderweb ripped in half by a shed door.
Down 6 points and Doing Well.