Coping

[Zugzwang]

Two guiding monologues in his mind and both diametrically opposed. ‘Monologues’ may have been the wrong way to put it; there were no words behind these urges. The desire to restrain himself, and the desire to make his fury evident.

 

Soon enough he was in bed.

 

Three Xanax. A small price to pay to calm himself. But he did that the day before too. The day before that he had lorazepam. Did that count? He wasn’t sure. He was trying to calm a nonlinear force with something he had to be precise about. Too many days in a row and he was f*cked.

 

The next day came, unfortunately. Every time he woke up he wanted to go back to bed. Not out of trivial, and usual, teenage sleepiness- rather because the only time he was at peace was when he was drifting towards unconsciousness.

 

The school day was surreal as usual and as usual he wasn’t really there. Just waiting. Living life was a trial of endurance and it was most evident in academia.

 

The trials for the day weren’t over.. His mother was home early.

 

The argument started with something trivial... then the argument was about the argument... Then the argument was just a venue for rage. All his morbid desires filled his head. He wanted to butcher her; to make her exsanguinate on the damn floor right in front of him.

 

He almost did.

 

Then luck prevailed and the right urge triumphed. He ran up stairs and emptied a Xanax bottle. Postponement had had its day.

 

Suffering had many days. He wasn’t sure how much of him was there for any of it. He was like a ghost, his mind elsewhere, only coming back to visit his body from time to time. What was he? He didn’t know. At times he was uncontrollable rage. At times he was apathetic, aware, depression. At times he was full of love, of hope, that he knew on some level, was waiting to be crushed.

 

Everyday he saw his life ending as his bottles emptied. He knew rationing was a vain effort. The only thing to do was to take the pills and hope another avenue of amelioration would be available by some chance.

 

At night he had panic attacks. His vivid imagination so active it made his fears as real as hallucinations. Spiders crawled out from under his bed, evil looked through his window, screams of abuse echoed throughout his house.

 

He would sweat. He would cry. He would be absorbed in depression or fear and held to the mercy of his anger. His relieve had been spent time after time to fund an easy habit.

 

His mind, distorted from birth, was imploding. Every jarring experience of his life seemed to gather for the purpose of his torment; It was time to pay for all the escapes, and he was broke.

 

Soon he couldn’t postpone it any longer. He couldn’t be sedated; he became brutal.