''A Return To Self''

‘’A Return to Self’’

The coffee here always was abysmal, a thin, drab liquid little more than a cheap caffeine delivery system. Good thing I stopped noticing the taste of coffee, or rather stopped caring about the taste of things in general, months ago. As I half-heartedly picked up the paper cup and brought it to my mouth for a large gulp I was already sliding the second cup underneath the machine’s spout. Regardless of taste the barely warm contents of these cups would provide me with just enough energy to operate on some basic level until I got home. That was really all that mattered. Couldn’t sleep until I got home after all. God I wanted to sleep.

I’d religiously adopted avoiding eye contact with the other people in the waiting room since my.. episode. Before that I’d look them over intently, commiserate with these poor, unfortunate souls who were so obviously mentally unwell. These poor folks were crazy after all, in one way or another, though surely through no fault of their own. Not me, I was just eccentric, I had ‘a thing’, but I sure wasn’t crazy; I never said it, I tried not to even think it, but obviously I was in some sense superior to these downtrodden, dejected figures. It’s amazing how see-through the lies we tell ourselves are in hindsight. Hard to believe we ever bought into them in the first place. We must sometimes be exceptionally willing to. As I quietly found a seat I downed the second of my, by now tepid, cups of pseudo-life giving coffee hoping others shared my newly found aversion to eye contact and social interaction. Fortunately enough, it appeared they did.

“Mr Wright?” The receptionist called, breaking the silent aura of shame that so often permeated the waiting room. Hearing my name called here always raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Even though everybody else was surely there for similar reasons it always made me feel caught, like she was exposing some indignity of mine to the world. I got up and walked over to the counter. It was the brunette one working today, as was most often the case on Fridays. I much preferred her to her blonde co-worker. Though I was sure they were both equally friendly and professional, the blonde one was younger and more inexperienced and hadn’t quite mastered the ability to masquerade the pity in her voice. “Doctor Finch will see you now sir, room 204.” she said as she buzzed me in. As I passed through the door and rounded the corner I realized I hadn’t registered her face at all. Odd that, after a dozen visits or so over the past half year I wouldn’t be able to pick either one of them out of a line-up.

“Welcome David, come in, please have a seat.” the doctor said as he gestured to a chair on the opposite side of a desk that was frankly too big for the small room. Doctor Finch looked more or less like the psychiatrists cliché; a small beard, greying hair, a stocky frame and of course the mandatory tweed jacket. Finch had been my doctor for years and before I’d found his apparent strict adherence to this cartoonish image of the psychiatrist rather amusing. Ever since my momentary lapse in sanity however, I found it oddly comforting in a way. He’d added some colour to the otherwise dreary looking office by way of a large, brightly-coloured, abstract painting over his head. As I took my seat opposite Doctor Finch and his garish painting I gave it an extra once-over. On this specific morning even those normally loud colours seemed to me impossibly dull. That always tipped me off on how much extra effort I’d have to expend to look lively, my own abstract canary down the coal mine. Today would be an extra effort sort of day then.

“How have you been since your last visit a few weeks ago, any changes in your moods?” Doctor Finch queried as he pulled up my charts on his computer.

We were starting off easy then. “I’ve been good Doctor, as stable as I was last time I was here. The medication really seems to be helping.” Couldn’t hurt to pepper that in early in the conversation.

“Good, good,” Doctor Finch said as he glanced at his screen and extended my, what must by now be, sizable file. “,and the memory, how’s that been David? These higher doses have been known to cause some significant side-effects in that regard. As I recall you suffered some medication-induced memory loss in the past, has this subsided?”

Time to put on my game face. Doctor Finch had stated last time that if my memory didn’t improve he’d cut my dose. Then it’d be back to the real world, that place from before it happened, that place that led me there, where I’d have to think and feel something about anything and everything. No thanks. “Doing much better Doctor.” I put every last bit of energy those cups of coffee had given me into adding some zip to the words, even forced something vaguely reminiscent of a smile. Doctor Finch looked me in the eye for a long moment and steadily held my gaze as if he were weighing his next words carefully.

“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it!” he suddenly exclaimed almost over-enthusiastically. “You mentioned last time you had issues with tiredness and balancing your energy, have you seen any improvements there as well?”

Sure. I thought, keeping my facial expression as level as possible. I no longer have any issue with sleeping 12 hours a day. “Strong improvements there too, I’m way more active than before. I’ve even found the energy to exercise every now and again.” I lied through forcibly exposed teeth.

Doctor Finch replied in that same upbeat tone, almost inappropriate for the subject matter, as if he were trying to sell something to a particularly unwilling customer: “That’s good David, very good. Now as you know I’ve kept in touch with some of your family since your manic episode 6 months ago. They’ve reported very similar findings and said that you appear much improved. In light of all this good news I think it might be time to scale back your medication, after all these high doses aren’t sustainable in the long run as you well know.”

My family had indeed reported similar happy observations to me, and it was a good thing they had. I didn’t remember most of their visits or them checking up on me after all. When they came over I’d brew a large pot of coffee, smile and tried my utmost best to focus on any meandering conversations that clearly were little more than thinly veiled probes into my closed-for-maintenance mind. Still, they’d earned the right. I did get the occasional flashes of their faces twisted in horror and concern, as they attempted to fuss over me and care for me when I myself wasn’t in the slightest bit capable of, or interested in, doing so. If they said I looked better, I was glad of it. On their behalf mostly.

“Look Doctor Finch..” I stammered, trying and failing to maintain an air of neutral composure, “..are you sure that wouldn’t be too soon? We could lose the progress we’ve made after all.” At rare times like these the guilt and shame ridden remnants of memories from my manic episode managed to reassert themselves, even if just for a moment. I had absolutely no desire to get reacquainted with any of them.

“Now David..” Doctor Finch grumbled with a suddenly scrutinizing look “..as we’ve discussed the human psyche after an episode is much like a broken bone. It needs time to set and to heal but eventually the cast must come off for the full healing process to be completed. Don’t worry David, after these long months you’ll soon finally start feeling like your old self again.”

Fuck I thought as I accepted the reduced prescription and with it the end of my 6-month mental hiatus. My old self, who the hell would want to feel like that?

It was good to be home. Days like these took an extra toll on my meagre energy reserves. Workdays were easier. Clients would come into the shop and I’d advise them on one product or the other over a few pots of coffee, taking notes as they spoke. Often when at the end of the day I’d be processing their orders I’d find I had no memory of any of these people. If nothing else I’d become fastidious in taking notes, any detail not penned down had a large chance of never having happened to my mind. And so workdays, and workweeks, all blended together as time itself lost most of its meaning. In sight of recent events I had found this to be a rather large blessing.

This loss of sense of time led me to feel like I got home quicker, and that was after all, my only goal. As I dropped my keys and wallet onto the hallway dresser I stared at myself in the large oval mirror hanging over it. The face in the mirror was mine, I was quite certain of that, but the eyes were foreign and strange. Peering back at me from the dark, listless face were two sullen looking green eyes set with tiny, pinpoint-pupils. These were the pupils of the overly medicated, the overly sedated and they made the green irises look enormous, giving an alien quality to the person reflected in the mirror. Had I noticed this before? Would I have remembered if I had? Surely Doctor Finch must have noticed it earlier today. It would have been tough to hide that beneath my well-practiced, worry not, ‘smile’,

Today’s exertions had left me utterly drained. As I opened the fridge I found a few ready-made meals, all untouched. I recognized one of my mother’s bright red plastic containers and my sister’s signature Wednesday-night-casserole. They’d be back soon to see if I’d been eating properly. I should dispose of those tomorrow, use the outside trash, wash the dishes, prepare a response on the finer points of how it tasted. Tomorrow though. I closed the fridge and staggered over to the couch where I slumped down as I let the accumulated exhaustion of the day and the fog of the medication slowly enveloped me. I knew if I let myself fall to my side that old leather piece of furniture would be as comfortable as any king sized bed, a more tempting prospect there had never been. Still I fought the urge to lie down just a moment longer and tried to do the math; could I keep up a higher dose for a bit? Stretch the supply somehow? No, I’d just wind up running out before the month was up and then I’d be in real trouble. I counted out my new, lower dose of medication and swallowed the fistful of pills knowing the protective spell they’d so steadfastly cast would soon wither and be broken.

As I sat on the couch, staring at a nondescript point on my wall, I reflected on what I knew would be my last waking moments of blissful numbness for a long while to come. And that would be for the best, Doctor Finch had assured me so. Would my family agree with him in the long run, for that matter would I? Both my family’s and my worries had abated over these past 6 months of heavy medication. If nothing else my now ending half-life was far more peaceful than my old self, in many ways it was surely preferable to all parties involved. Couldn’t I hide from the world, and myself, for just a bit longer, for all our sakes? As I slid down and my head nestled on the course pillow of the by now so familiar sofa one last thought crept through my muddled mind before a dreamless and all-consuming sleep overtook me: I might soon feel more like myself again, but I’d never willingly feel like my ‘old self’ again.

~  Thanks for reading, please let me know in the comments how you enjoyed it. ~