Mirror, Mirror

I take a sip of my beer and watch as the man on the TV has a mental breakdown. Tears stream down his face, and he sobs uncontrollably. I had thought watching a character drama would make me feel less alone. Maybe the urge wouldn’t hit me so hard. Maybe I could fight back. But it’s happening again.

Bringing my hand up to my head, I feel the cold metal of the neural implant. The buttons wait patiently, and my brain longs for me to press them. I squirm on the couch and take another sip of beer. No matter how much dopamine I give myself through movies, food, drinks, or video games, my brain constantly wants more. It’s like there’s a hole in my soul that needs to be filled by my implant. I need it.

But I had promised myself I wouldn’t use it again. I had seen videos and read essays about implants. It would keep me from wanting to meet new people. It would make me want to stay on my couch and watch TV all day.

It would make me miserable for the rest of my life.

The articles online suggested that I find a focus group to help me with my problem, but I refused. I’m too cowardly to talk to other people about my problems. It’s much easier to sit at home and let the implant keep me company.

I feel for the button under my hair, but I stop myself. Would it be worth it? I keep pressing that stupid dopamine button over and over again every day. I promised myself I would stop. I wouldn’t be any happier if I did it, and I might even feel more miserable. That’s not what I want. I want to be happy. I want this feeling of loneliness to go away, which is why I got the implant in the first place. Every time I press the button that fills my head with dopamine, I’m not alone anymore. For as long as I press that button, I’m happy.

But am I really happy? If it doesn’t last, can I even consider it joy? What’s the point of happiness that fades? I don’t want that. I want to always be happy. I don’t want to have to hold a button down to keep the happiness flowing into my brain, like holding a key on the piano to stretch out the note. Even if I hold it down, it still fades after time. That’s not happiness.

Yet I still feel the urge. I want it. I need it. I keep telling myself it's not worth it, but my brain doesn’t listen and keeps shouting at me, urging me to press that stupid button and flood my mind with chemicals. I long for it. My mind starts to come up with excuses for allowing myself to do it. It’ll only be this one last time. I don’t have to do it again afterward. Just once more. Then, I can go about my life, ignoring the metal machine surgically implanted into my head, forgetting it’s there, and pursuing happiness in other ways.

I reach my hand up again, but I remember this isn’t the first time I’ve told myself that. There have been many other “last times.” Yet here I am. I’m still hooked on pressing the button and making myself feel good.

Why can’t I just be happy? It seems that everyone is except me.

The man in the movie is saying the same thing, crying out in anguish and frustration. Why? Why couldn’t he be content with his wife? Why couldn’t he stop drinking? Why couldn’t he just be happy? Now, his wife is gone, and no one can help him.

I squirm again on the couch. The man in the movie is eyeing a bottle of alcohol. I feel my implant, which is a big mistake because the urge to press the button only gets stronger. I long for it. I need it. Just this once couldn’t hurt, could it? It would only be one more time, feeling the pleasure course through my body and filling my mind, replacing that gaping hole in my heart called loneliness that I seem to be the only one suffering from. It would be ok. Right?

But I had been over this before. I shouldn’t. I can, but I shouldn’t.

The ads for the WonderTech brain implant are very deceiving. They convinced me that it would solve all of my problems, turn my life around, and put a wonderful smile on my face, replacing the existential dread that haunted me day after day. I could be as happy as the people in the commercials.

There have been many lawsuits against WonderTech for false advertising, and I am considering adding myself to the list.

Despite what some believe, the therapy business has exploded since implants emerged. I don’t have a therapist. I’m broke. Heck, these movies I’m using for therapy are almost too much. My journal is helpful, though. It’s affordable, and I can discuss all my problems without facing anyone as their gaze pierces my eyes. I like it.

That’s good; thinking about other things distracts me from my implant and makes me forget about the strong impulse to press that button and hold it for as long as I can stand. But realizing what I’m doing brings me back to my implant, and the impulse returns, stronger than ever, causing me to squirm on my couch some more. Crap. I grab the armrest to keep myself from reaching up to my head.

It’s not working. But then again, nothing has worked for me so far. Everything fails, and I always press that button, no matter how many promises I make or how many things I replace it with. I need to meet new people and form deep, personal relationships with them. I need to cure myself of this loneliness before it gets out of hand, and I give myself so much dopamine it kills me, which has happened to other customers of WonderTech many times before. I need to take care of this.

But that can wait. I don’t have to take care of it now, do I? I’ll be ok. One more time won’t hurt.

The man in the movie crawls across the room, reaching for the bottle. He grabs it, slowly sitting up and looking into it.

Before I know what’s happening, my grip on the armrest releases, and my hand lifts to my head while my fingers feel under my hair for the cold, solid metal of the implant and the rubber nubs that are the buttons. I feel around until I find the right button and press it.

The man brings the bottle to his lips and begins to chug the whole thing.

I shut my eyes and feel the dopamine rushing through my head, filling my mind with pleasure and filling that void in my soul. My squirming stops. I don’t feel the urge to do anything anymore except to hold that button for longer, basking in the pleasure that rushes through my body, filling my head, drowning my thoughts, and curing my disease, which is loneliness and hopelessness. I sigh and hum. It feels amazing.

My stomach begins to churn. It’s the side effect of holding the button for so long, but I don’t stop. I hold the button for longer, and nausea continues to build. My implant lets out a warning beep, letting me know I’m almost at the maximum dopamine level. But I ignore it and continue to focus on the pleasure of the chemical rushing through my head, flooding the hole that once existed inside me.

The beeping stops, and the implant activates its emergency shut-off. The dopamine stops flowing into my brain. I don’t feel pleasure anymore. I’m hollow again. Alone. Empty.

The nausea has reached its peak, and my body is ready to hurl. I stand and saunter at first but begin running to the bathroom as my nausea worsens and the pressure inside me builds. It doesn’t take long. My apartment is small, and I reach the bathroom in only a few seconds, which is lucky because I am just in time for my stomach to push its contents up my digestive tract, which spills out of my mouth into the toilet. I taste the bitter tang on my tongue and vomit again—my core aches. I hurl a final time and stand in front of the toilet for another moment, ensuring that my body doesn’t want to push anything more out.

I slowly stand up, stepping over to the sink. I cup my hands under the stream of water and put it up to my face, washing the strings of vomit off my lips and chin before cupping my hands again and bringing it up to my lips, rinsing out the tang and the extra vomit under my tongue. I rinse my mouth out a few times before looking up at the mirror. I see my reflection looking back. The green eyes are watery. The face is pale. The brown hair is a mess. The lips are quivering.

I breathe deeply. In through my nose and out through my mouth, calming my body, allowing the oxygen to flow through my muscles, relaxing my core, and closing my eyes. I feel my lips stop quivering, and I open my eyes again. The same mess of a person is still staring back at me.

I take a shaky breath. Why did I do that? It wasn’t worth it, just as I said. I’m not any happier. In fact, I’m not even as happy as I was before, which was pretty hard to beat. The void has returned. I’m lonely again.

There isn’t any hope. I’m doomed to live like this forever, always pressing that button, always thinking it will help me someday, feeling good and letting chemicals flow through my head, creating pleasure throughout my body until I vomit, washing myself up in the bathroom where that stupid wretch looks at me with judging eyes.

Tears flow down my face. I start to sob, but that sob turns into a scream.

The voice from the TV floats into the bathroom. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The tears slow down, and my breathing calms as I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, my breath fogging up the mirror in front of me. I trudge back to the couch and plop down onto its cushioned surface. I look at my can of beer and decide not to pick it back up. I wipe the tears from my face. The man in the film wipes his tears as well.

I cover my face with my hands. I'm a wreck. I'm a complete wreck of a man with no purpose. I've dug myself into a hole that I can't dream of climbing out alone, but I'm scared of what others will think of me, so I don't ask for help. Why am I this way? Why don't I ask for help? Why must I be so alone with no one to be there for me when I need them?

The movie cuts to a new scene. The man wakes up with a tear-stained face and a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. His sheets are stained, presumably from the whiskey. The man goes to the bathroom to wash his face, cleaning the tear stains off his cheeks.

This isn't the end of the movie. It's the beginning. The man's story doesn't end in despair. There is always tomorrow, and with tomorrow comes another chance. Not everything is lost, and he can still make things right if he wants to.

I sigh and look around the couch for my phone. When I see it, I pick it up and open it, going to my web browser and searching for implant support groups near me. There's always tomorrow. It'll be ok. I will not do it again.

Sitting on the couch, watching my movie, I renew my promises.