Uppers and Downers

Wake up.

Take 75+75+75mg of your SNRI so you don’t feel depressed, so you stop fighting or fleeing from every day.

Take half a milligram of your benzodiazepine to keep calm and carry on.

Microwave a cup of coffee with cinnamon roll creamer.

Drink in big, fat swallows to combat the aftereffects of the atypical antipsychotic you took at bedtime.

Get shaky.

Get fidgety.

Get real productive.

Clickety clack all over the keyboard, planning out your social media day.

Find inspirational quotes.

Post them to Twitter and Facebook.

Schedule the rest.

Feel very accomplished.

Crash into the restlessness, the foot tapping, the uncontrollable hand tremors.

Go back to bed with the laptop and your books to lay beside your snoring husband —

you have a tendency to wake up very early these days —

and keep moving, even in under-the-covers comfort.

Your feet rub over and over each other because there is no such thing as stillness anymore.

Even in sleep, there are nightmares:

Your abusive father comes after you for sex.

Dinosaurs and aliens kill and eat the people you know.

The crazy world turns apocalyptic.

You run to survive, to stay alive, to remain unviolated, to find a moment of peace in sleep —

The worst is it’s lucid.

You know you’re trapped in a horror-film-dream.

Waking up takes an incredible act of terror.

Instead of stretching and opening your eyes to the warmth of sun, you flail and punch and bite.

You try to calculate how long you must stay awake —

the film picks up where it left off.

Or else a new one begins, but the genre never changes.

The lethargy never goes, but restfulness never comes.

And the days run this way, like a wind-up toy.

Some hand keeps the gears tight, and it is not yours.

Your therapist says you’re better, and asks what would you like to do now?

You insist upon continuing your weekly visits.

You don’t see what she could possibly see.

You eat a lot of protein, to keep your energy level.

You are often hungry and your heart rate is often high.

You practice mindful breathing.

You practice yoga, moving through your asanas adeptly;

if your mind cannot be strong, your body will be.

You practice meditation, chasing peace, knowing that wanting anything is contrary to the practice.

You try to take the nothingness of after-the-panic-attack-goes and implant it into your sitting time.

You are aware that ‘trying’ is contrary to the practice.

You breathe.

You blink.

You think of breathing and blinking and drawing your shoulders away from your ears, your shoulder blades in, back, and down.

This helps for a time.

Other times, there is an urgent lassitude that comes and then you are most productive.

You are aware of the choke hold of productivity.

You crave it like a BDSM fantasy.

You sleep and wake at strange hours, letting the day pass as it will.

The sun is also a mechanical thing.

So too the moon and stars.

You find solace in selfish cat-cuddles.

You find solace in being fucked.

You find solace in great amounts of nicotine.

You don’t think about repercussions.

Sometimes you spend a lot of money.

Sometimes you eat a lot of blueberry scones.

Sometimes you laugh.

You have a favorite sweatshirt.

You clean your teeth on the cuffs.

You spill food down the front.

You use the hood as a swaddle for your head.

You are loathe to put it in the wash.

You obsessively brush your teeth.

The taste of a dirty mouth digs into your brain until rectified.

Until now, you had ghastly oral hygiene practices.

You drink water with excessive amounts of ice.

You begin to experiment again with wine.

You develop cravings for ginger ale.

You begin texting conversations that you don’t finish.

You worry your friends feel neglected.

You give good advice in a piss-poor tone.

You give people reasons to get angry with you.

You have a fantastic idea for an article about your cats.

You have a fantastic idea for a novel about Jeopardy.

You have a fantastic idea for an in-depth piece about David Foster Wallace.

You don’t write much of anything.

You listen to a lot of podcasts about motherhood.

You listen to podcasts about productivity.

You listen to podcasts by middle aged men talking about bric-a-brac and their children.

You crave a lot of silence.

You crave a lot of silence.

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