Doesn't take much

TW: mental health

California has fifty-three species of mosquitoes living in the state. In the East Bay, in the summer months, the mosquitoes bite quite often. They float around at eye level, looking for an opportunity to strike, and if they’re not feeding, they’re hiding, watching you. It’s interesting to observe them; you learn that mosquitoes can die from their mistakes just like anything else.

George watched one while he was in bed, lying on his side. The mosquito was one of the big ones; its legs and siphon were so long that it looked more like a caricature of a mosquito than the real thing. But it was real, and as George repeated his chant, he watched the insect frantically scale the window screen up, down, left, and right. The mosquito had gotten itself into a sort of prison. It could breathe because of the screen, but the glass window and door frame kept it trapped. George felt compelled to save it but then quickly returned to the larger priority: his chant.

It was six-thirty in the morning. George was repeating, “I love you, George Marsh.” 

He chanted those words every morning. It was always the same; he’d start the process by repeating the sentence over and over again until it turned into a rhythm. Once he found the spirit of the words, he’d propel them into a chant. He’d say the sentence until he believed it to be true.

This particular morning wasn’t that bad; he only had to chant ten times. Most days, it took a lot longer, and it didn’t matter either way, really; even if he woke up feeling 100% like he didn’t need the chant, he’d still do it out of respect for the routine.

George hopped out of bed and walked to the window to look at the mosquito. He’d never seen one trapped like that before. It reminded him of those monarch butterfly in-frames, where the bodies of beautiful orange and black butterflies hang like art between two plates of glass. Of course, the butterflies used for art are all dead; this mosquito was very much alive, moving, searching for a way out.

The whole time George watched it, the insect didn’t stop moving. It scaled the screen in a vague pattern like a robot vacuum cleaner might cover a living room. As the mosquito’s struggle played out before his eyes, George felt like its personal God. Not that he felt like a God, just that he finally felt what it might be like to have power; it was good to love oneself and to have the ability to save lives. 

George decided he’d rescue the mosquito after getting ready because if he did it then, it might bite him. He knew keeping the mosquito alive while coaxing it to the bathroom, where there was a window without a screen, was going to be a pain in the ass. It would but much easier to let the thing die, but the day seemed to call for compassion, and he was excited to help. He told the mosquito, “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m gonna eat and shower, then save you. You’re going to be ok.” 

George ate breakfast while listening to a podcast episode of a commencement speech that Denzel Washington gave. The Academy Award-winning actor tells the graduating class how important it is to continue to have goals and push forward. It sounds basic, but it’s Denzel Washington, so it’s riveting. Just like George’s chant, motivational podcasts were part of the series of steps he completed most mornings.

Today, the steps played a part in his overall happiness and sense of well-being. George was committed to them precisely because they created the foundation for a good day like this to occur. Two years ago, when things were hopeless, George didn’t have any tools to help him. Now, he was equipped and understood the importance of taking control from the very moment you wake up. Routines were essential to staying afloat.

However, an outside factor also played a part in his optimism: the quarterly MVP award. It was given to the top-performing account manager in his department, and even though the prize was a choice between a gym bag or a $50 UberEats gift card, he really wanted to win. In truth, he didn’t care about the award; it was more that he wanted to feel like a winner again. Winning would affirm that the break-up, the sessions, and getting sober were all worth it. 

In the shower, George did his breathing exercises, which were a routine all on their own, and took a considerable amount of mental and physical energy. Each exercise was different; during one, you’d breathe through your nose and exhale through your mouth; during another, you’d hold one nostril shut and breath through your nose for thirty seconds, then repeat on the other side. There were six exercises in total that George completed before exiting the shower. The last one was the most intense. It’s called Lion's breath; on the exhale you you make a ‘ha’ sound that comes from deep within your abdomen. He repeated it three times, which was low for him. It was another sign of a good day. 

The socks he picked out had only been worn and washed once before, and his boxers felt supportive around his groin and thighs like they were new. He picked out a stonewashed denim oxford that didn’t have any wrinkles. His pants weren’t creased and had no lint on them. He needed a haircut, probably should have shaved, and had worn the outfit many times before, but when he looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror, he was stoked; it was just one of those days.

As he locked the front door, right before he took the key out, he remembered the mosquito. He was already dressed, bag in hand, and outside. He pictured how irritating it might be to try to get the mosquito to fly where he wanted, and it seemed like too much work to save the insect’s life at the moment. He pulled his key out from the lock and walked to the steps that would take him out of the apartment complex. He reasoned that he could save the mosquito later; it would be there when he got back. 

***

George was in a conference room with a fourteen-seat table for the morning stand-up. He was part of a team of eight, whose leader was named Winston. George had never met another person with that name, and neither had other members of his team. They often talked about how strange it was and how well it suited their boss.

Winston was standing before them in front of a whiteboard, finishing up another one of his speeches. He said, “Sometimes you need to go to a bad place just so you can come back.” 

Winston paused for dramatic effect and surveyed the group. George thought it looked like his boss thought he was a captain, which would make the long wooden table a ship.

Winston had just told them that the company had its worst quarter in history, and people were only going to get paid out 60% of their bonuses. It was a hard pill to swallow, and yet, the team remained silent of complaints. Winston, with his strange name, seemed built to deliver bad news. Some leaders rise to the top for no other reason than endurance; they just keep going. Winston was fantastic at filling dead air, and nobody dared say anything about the bad news because they knew Winston would have an answer.

George patiently waited for him to switch topics and talk about the quarter’s MVP award. If he won the prize, the fact he didn’t get paid out wouldn’t even matter. Money was great for buying things, but George wasn’t looking for something that you could buy. He needed something more, something he thought winning might give him. 

He was anxious to learn the MVP because he had a suspicion that it might be him. He thought of himself sitting at the conference table like Denzel Washington might have been sitting at the Oscars before he heard his name called for Training Day. After all, George was the best option for the award; he had the least churn on the team, and he’d lead a webinar that twenty-three people attended. It was more than what the others did that quarter. Also, he was one of two people who hadn’t won yet, and the other person, Joon, had terrible churn. George couldn’t imagine anyone else winning.

At the moment in the meeting when everyone expected the winner would be announced, Winston changed the agenda. He told the team that he’d present the award during the other team meeting that was happening later that afternoon. Then, he tried to end the stand-up on a positive note by telling the team that there were wins that occurred during the quarter that he was excited to share. Despite the company’s results, this afternoon’s meeting was going to be a celebration.

Outside the conference room, George listened to his colleagues' mutter obscenities about the bonuses. Usually, he’d be quick to join in on the complaints, but today he barely paid attention to them because he was so focused on the possibility of winning the award. He just wanted it all to work out so badly. On the walk back to his desk, when he was away from the others, he thought to himself, “You have a chance; it might happen; you’re doing great.” 

An hour before the meeting, Winston sent his team a gif from the movie Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgandy. In it, Ron’s screaming in a phone booth. It reads, “I’m in a glass case of emotion.” 

Under the gif, Winston wrote that he was conflicted because the news he shared this morning was tough, but the wins he’d talk about this afternoon were incredible. He signed off by telling the team to get ready. 

The email felt like it had a hidden meaning. In George’s company profile, where his basic information could be found, there were also “fun” questions that all employees had to answer. Things like: What’s your favorite food? What superpower do you want? What’s your favorite movie? 

For the movie one, George’s answer was Anchorman. The way the day was going, it was easy for him to put it all together: Winston was telling him he was going to win. 

Later that day, the team was back in the conference room with an open eighteen-pack of Coors Light on the middle of the table.

“Marsh, you want one?” Winston asked. 

George shook his head, “No. Thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Everyone on the team except George was drinking. It was common for people to drink at work. It seemed like as long as it was after 4 pm, no one batted an eye. When George first joined the company, he told his team he was sober because he got terrible hangovers. It was a weak lie, but it got him through social events. Also, it was better than the truth, which embarrassed George.

Winston started the meeting by going around the room and calling out a win for each team member. When he got to George, he said, “Give it up for Marsh, who had the highest webinar attendance of the quarter. Great job, Georgey-boy! You should host a podcast or something.” The team laughed and clapped, then Winston went to the next person in line.

Winston knew how to create suspense and slowly built to the MVP announcement. George was certain he would win. He only thought about how he would react to the news; he couldn't wait. But when the moment finally came, it didn't go how he wanted; George didn't win; Joon was the winner. Winston cited Joon’s 75 seat expansion with Servicenow as the main factor. 

George was devastated. Joon had the worst churn on the team, but instead of focusing on that, they gave him the award because of a growth goal. The loss immediately flipped George’s feelings towards the day. It was like the power went out inside of him, and all he could do was think about how dark his life was. While the group celebrated Joon’s win and drank to forget the lousy quarter, George kept quiet and thought about how miserable it was to be him. 

He thought of the break-up, which was one of the clearest indicators that he was hopeless. He and his ex lived together for two years, and that second year, he was sober. He broke down the relationship while the others partied; his ex fell in love with him when he was drinking, and she called it off when he was sober. What was history trying to tell him? 

George was aware enough of his thoughts that he realized he was sinking back into his depression. It seemed like it never ended; it was always there, just beneath the surface, welcoming him upon his return. He tried to muster the strength to say his chant, but instead, the words he didn’t want to say started to play in his head. Unlike his chant, which he had to think about saying to feel an impact, the chant he heard now played automatically.

So he sat there, staring at the half-empty eighteen pack, listening to himself chant, “I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.” 

These were the words that he was used to hearing. They were the words that he tried to combat with the routine. He never could get away from them. He remembered the mosquito and how it was scaling the screen every which way trying to get free. The mosquito seemed willing to do whatever it took to escape its prison. He assumed the mosquito was still trying to find a way out, ignorant to the truth that freedom was out of its control. George wondered if it was foolish to have such dedication.

At least five minutes passed while he remained silent, sinking deeper into his depression. Winston, as he was a considerate leader, finally spoke to him. He had a can of beer in his hand and said to George, “Marsh, you’re acting a little bit like Eeyore. Come on, focus on the wins; celebrate; have a beer.” 

George listened to that thing inside of him he’d ignored for so long, “Have a beer. Just have one. It’s just a beer. It’s not a big deal; it’s just a drink”. 

The next thing George knew, he was drinking a beer. It happened in the blink of an eye, like shutting a window. 

***

George liked to drink until it felt like he was overdosing. If he had one drink, it meant he’d have a dozen, and when George drank, he was nothing like himself. His ego would puff up and take control. He’d be more expressive and friendly, and people liked it at first, but as he kept drinking, another side would come out. It was the side of hate. It was all the hate that he had for himself projected on whatever or whoever was around him. 

All it took was the one beer to push George back into his old ways. The AA sessions, the work with the counselor, the routine, none of it mattered after he’d finished the first beer. 

He drank three more in the office, then abandoned his coworkers and drove to a bar near his apartment, where he stayed for three hours, numbing himself. He poured the booze down his throat, knowing damn well it was a poison that would only make things worse. He did it because he thought it was what he deserved. 

George got kicked out of the bar for bothering people at 9:45 pm. He stumbled home cursing the bartender for a while, but then, as drunks do, he got reflective, and as depression dictates, he turned his curses towards himself.

Walking home, he chanted, “I hate my life,” and, “My life sucks.” 

Passing cars honked at him when it looked like he was going to fall off the sidewalk. When he heard the horns, he’d chant even louder, like he was shouting so the driver could hear. At one point, he even broke out in a loud song, singing, “I’m a piece of shit who deserves nothing.” 

When he was back in his apartment, swaying in the kitchen in front of the fridge, he recalled his plans to save the mosquito. 

“I’m coming,” He shouted to the insect, “I’ll save your life,”

He bounced off the hallway walls as he stumbled to his bedroom. Once inside, he flicked on the light and hurried to the window. 

“Where are ya, buddy?” He asked. 

 He searched the screen and the corners of the frame, but the insect wasn’t there. 

“Oh no,” He said.

Then he spotted the mosquito lying dead at the bottom of the window frame. George took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled from his abdomen screaming, ‘ah.’ 

Not even Lion's breath could calm him. All he could think about was how everything was his fault.

Moments later, he stripped off his clothes and flopped on the bed. Immediately he got the spins. The whole room moved in circles, and he completely forgot about the mosquito. Drinking that much was terrible for him, but he liked feeling that way. He thought about how he might drink tomorrow and maybe the next day too. He reasoned that it was ok to go for another couple of days; sobriety would be there when he got back.