It’s said that the Russians encased Chernobyl’s damaged reactor number 4 in a tomb of concrete and lead, following the nuclear melt down at the Chernobyl Nuclear Plant. Perhaps you need to do that to me ~ build a sarcophagus to put me in for when I have my melt-downs. The you wouldn’t have had to leave, like you did last night, and sleep in the car at the side of the road. Assuming that’s what you did. Assuming you didn’t go to your girlfriend’s place. What’s her name again? It starts with an A. Angela, that’s it. So, I experienced a melt-down last night. Your frightening rages certainly don’t help matters, you know. But, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? After all, it’s entirely my fault. You are the innocent one, the victim in all this, aren’t you?
For a split second that night I contemplated ~ not in any real way ~ returning to Vancouver. Also slashing my wrists, to release the pain of existing, to release the pain of loving you. I wished I had the courage to do it, to carve myself. I would do it, then. I swear I would. And there, I said it. And I braced myself, for that fury, yours, and that stormy temper which you would exact upon me. You saw my pain only as a Damocles’ Sword hanging over your head. Once again, it was all about you. You were the victim in all this. Despite the fact that I carried this enormous fear of you and felt the pulp of my being carved out of itself by the gigantic and aching longing I had, for what, I don’t know.
I hallucinated. Everything made me fee unREAL. I could not discern the real from the unreal, this seemed like such a random distinction to make. Also, I heard music out loud that only played itself in my head. I experienced ~ revisited, really ~ that horrid sensation I refer to as ‘wanting to jump out of my skin.’ Like, my soul could stand no longer to rest inside its shell. Such a painful restlessness seized me and would not let go. And an unsettling sense of impending doom crawled up and into my mind as slowly as a bead of sweat trickles down my spine. A demon wanted to possess me; she waited, at the edge of my sanity. She waited there, ready to pounce when the bell jar began to clamp down on my psyche. And then? Then, I felt so far removed from myself that no one could reach me.
And then the tomorrows came. Which meant that yesterday you took me to see a doctor, a country doctor in a small office. A woman ~ not that it matters, but strange men do frighten me. She wanted to prescribe me Oxazepam, but the pharmacist would not allow it. So, she settled for Zopiclone. For a while, the Zopiclone kept the night frights at bay. Also the panic. And, of course, the insomnia. And the tears that deluged me when least expected.
But that deep, visceral ache I felt still existed. I felt like no medication, no drug, would erase it. Ever. It lived inside me, inside my mind, where it took on the shapes of words. And, all of these words sat in my throat like a small pebbles. They gave me this choking feeling, made it difficult for me to breathe. They needed an escape onto the page. What page? Some page, any page. Or a screen, this screen. One night the nightmare involved me with a dog underwater. A black dog. A black lab, I think. What were we doing? Drowning, maybe? I don’t remember. Maybe it’s better that way. Ultimately the psyche has a strange and powerful way of protecting its owner-occupant.