by Sarah Lassez
Olivia nodded. “Another approach would be drugs—”
“I’ll take them!”
She smiled. “What you have is classic obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
I took a deep, relieved breath. Yes. I have something with a name. That means it’s curable. I wanted to do a dance of delight, a pirouette of happiness, a jeté of joy. I wanted to twirl around her office and knock down all the degrees from the walls; I wanted to stand on top of the coffee table and sing, “The sun’ll come out, to-morrow! Bet your bottom dollar that to-morrowwww…there’ll be sunnn.”
“I’d recommend Zoloft; that would be a quick way to…”
When I’m stuck with a DAY, that’s GRAY, and low-ow-ownly, I’ll just stick out my CHIN, and GRIN, and SAYYYY…
Drugs! It was so easy. It was immediate, it was painless, it was perfect. I tried to pay attention to what she was saying, but the sense of hope I felt got in the way and essentially blocked her out, presenting me with images of Sane Sarah, a girl who could look at food without cringing from heartbreak, who could pass a phone without itching to pay for a call, who could use her computer for normal, healthy things like out-of-control shopping. I was sold. This Zoloft stuff would be my new best friend. I just knew it. Never had I been into Western medicine. I’d always preferred the holistic route: vitamins, herbs, homeopathic remedies and teas. As a matter of fact, I’d always been staunchly opposed to antidepressants—which I’m sure I’d always needed—partly because of the fear that if I took them, they could affect my acting, and one overwhelming element of being an actor is the ability to fully feel tortured. But this was a new me. A desperate me. A me who would gobble down any kind of pill if it would make the deep pain I felt go away. A me with no acting jobs in sight.
But alas, I realized once I was in the car, I had no health insurance. My bubble of impending sanity burst, and I fixated on how I’d get my drugs, determined to get them today—and fleetingly I noted, Why, yes, look at that, I am obsessive—as I knew I’d never be able to think of anything else until I could rest assured my brain chemistry was successfully being altered. Then, of course, I began to obsess over my obsessiveness. It was a vicious, vicious cycle.
What was I going to do? When all I could think of was ordering the drugs from Canada (too expensive) or venturing off to Mexico (too risky), I called all my friends to see how they went about being mentally ill. To my dismay, everyone acquired their antidepressants through their insurance, and I realized that in order to afford mental illness one also had to be able to hold down a full-time job with benefits. Somehow that didn’t seem right.
Speaking of jobs, I realized as I pulled into my driveway that I’d forgotten to go to mine today. Somehow, in all the excitement of the therapist’s office and my new disorder, I’d totally forgotten to call my boss to tell her I’d be late, and then I’d totally forgotten to be late and had instead just been not there. She was going to kill me. I yanked up the parking brake, turned off the ignition, reached for the door handle…but couldn’t move. I sat there, fingers curled around the handle, and yet I simply couldn’t get out of the car. I couldn’t even open the door. Nor, I realized, did I want to. It was actually nice in there, warm, like a sunny spot on a carpeted floor.
Was this what being numb was like? Had I finally gone numb from all the stress and worry, or was I just really tired and now suddenly cozy and peaceful? I stared at the peeling paint of the garage door. It looked like at one point it had been turquoise. A bright turquoise garage. I kind of wished I’d been there for that. I took a nice, long, deep breath, appreciating the air freshener I’d stuck in my car’s console—a scent that normally drove me crazy because it smelled exactly like a scratch ’n’ sniff sticker I’d had when I was young, yet for the life of me I could not figure out which one. Usually, when in my car, I’d smash the air freshener against my nose and furiously breathe in while driving, racking my brain to identify its place in my childhood sticker album. Yet I was only ever able to conjure the joyful bubblegum machine (Looking Good!), the grinning caramel apple (Stick to It!), or the bashful slice of pizza (Hot Stuff!).
Now I let it sit there. Now it didn’t torment me; now it was just absolutely lovely.
Maybe I was numb, but my composure was beginning to worry me. I should be a lot more freaked out. I was officially afflicted with something that had a name, and yet I couldn’t afford to make it go away. It was like the curse all over again. Okay, now I was freaked out. I was afflicted, and I had no way to get better.
Before I lost it, I had to call my boss. Lip quivering, I dialed her number. Just make it sixty, maybe ninety, seconds, Sarah, that’s it. Then you can lose it. She picked up and I started speed talking, lasting a total of about fifteen seconds before my lip did one final quiver and it was over. In my parked car, in my driveway, with my seat belt still on, I began weeping. As if this in and of itself wasn’t already a fabulous way to impress one’s employer, I then managed to explain, through gasps for air, that I was mentally ill and needed Zoloft.
And to this she said something remarkable. She said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
All at once it hit me, the reason she was so rich, the source of funding for her far too numerous Gucci and Prada requests: She was married to a doctor.
“Sarah? So you promise you’ll be in tomorrow? As soon as I wake up, I’d like you there. I really need you.”
As soon as she woke up meant one o’clock in the afternoon, but to be safe I got in at twelve forty-five. Immediately one of the crew of housekeepers informed me she was still sleeping, so quietly (not that she could hear anything with a bedroom approximately four thousand square feet from where I was standing) I made my way to the kitchen for some orange juice.
I kid you not—there on the counter, held magically in a ray of sunlight from the skylight above, were boxes and boxes of Zoloft.
I ran to them. I picked one up, held it lovingly, and admired the little cartoon smiley-faced bouncy ball with the lone tuft of hair. How had she done this so fast? She was a wonderful, wonderful woman who must have really, really needed something done today. I tore into the box and hastily determined how many were in there, multiplied that by all the boxes, and with delight learned I had months’ worth. Jackpot! Best get started! I poured myself a glass of orange juice and popped two little blue pills into my mouth, imagining them smiling their way into my bloodstream, gleefully tickling my brain, and laughing joyfully as I promptly became the contented person I longed to be. There, I thought, I feel better already.
Unfortunately, the feeling better part was short-lived, as soon I became crazily jittery, a fact that made sense when my boss finally strolled into the kitchen, silk robe flowing, and told me I was to start off with half a pill a day for the first week. Oops. Oh well, I thought, perhaps I’ve just given my brain chemistry a jump start on the process. I’ll be better in no time!
I was religious about my pills. Never had I been a good pill taker, especially not when it involved remembering to take something at the same time everyday, but this was different. Each pill was one pill closer to peace of mind, and I urgently, dreadfully, frantically wanted peace of mind. So there I was, each morning, ready with a glass of water and my little blue happy pill, just waiting for the clock to strike ten. Ten o’clock and down went the pill. Then I’d wonder, would this be the day? Would this be the day my long-lost friend Sanity returned? I pictured the little smiley bouncy ball turning into Pac-Man and coursing through my brain, gobbling up little demons of obsession, making a right turn and then a left and gobbling up some more.
Sadly, progress was slow. I managed to eradicate my Saturday call, but Thursday still involved a phone, my credit card, and a dollar-a-minute psychic. And Wilhelm’s e-mail? Sometimes I could go a whole day without checking, then there I was, first thing the next morning, popping my blue happy pill and typing in “HugBoss.”
One fateful Saturday, I’d made it through the day without a reading (despite an incredible urge to call E
rlin, scream at him for his failed predictions, and then ask if maybe Wilhelm was miserable without me) and had almost made it without checking his e-mail, but then something—perhaps my being alone on a Saturday night or my own rusty intuition—something commanded me to the computer and made me log into his account.
At first glance I didn’t see anything unusual, so I clicked on sent mail. There, the third e-mail down, was one addressed to me, which I’d not yet received because it must have just been sent.
This was it. I was certain. The plea to give him another chance, the revelation that he’d been suffering and missing me and that these last two and a half months had been the darkest he’d ever known. Click.
Dear Sarah,
I wanted to let you know I will not be in L.A. much longer. I secured a job with one of our partner hotels in San Diego, and will be moving at the end of the month. Thanks for the good times.
—Wilhelm
Okay. Clearly this wasn’t the big push to give him another chance…but more important, “Thanks for the good times”? Thanks for the good times? Great. The heads-up that soon he’d no longer be infecting my city with his presence was nice, but “Thanks for the good times”? I found that disturbing and insulting, akin to having barely survived a plane crash with someone, only to get a note from them with the words “Thanks for the fun flight!”
Thanks for the good times, my ass. Now let’s check out the e-mails he sent after mine. Click.
Greta—I’m finally off work. Let’s celebrate. Meet you at the hot tub.
Yours,
Willy
It was strange. One of my first thoughts, after reading this note that clearly indicated the man I’d thought was the love of my life was dating other women, was, Wow, I don’t feel like hurling myself off the balcony. How strange. The Zoloft, I realized, was working. Granted, I was still horrified, my heart was still pounding, and I still sort of felt the need to puke, but I also felt slightly removed, as if my life had turned into some strange soap opera I was watching on TV. And, oddly, I was sure that if I tried hard enough I could change the channel. Before there’d been only one channel. One channel and no volume control and no knobs on the TV. But now, now I had a mental remote. I was getting better.
But alas, I wasn’t ready to change the channel. I mean, Greta? Greta? Was he purposefully picking women with names he knew would torture me? Greta, in my still rather frenzied mind, was a beauty queen hailing from the land of ABBA and IKEA, a stunning Swede with long blond braided hair, a crazy white fur cap, and a pair of wooden clogs that with my luck would turn my demented ex on and morph him into the sex fiend I’d always longed for him to be. Briefly I pictured Greta and Nadja battling it out, blond pigtails pulled, lederhosen tearing, Swedish meatballs sailing, steins smashing. Strangely, I realized, I was now rooting for Nadja. This Greta chick had crashed our party, and I wanted her out.
Wait, though, back to the hot tub. What was he doing in there with this girl? Who was this girl, where had he met her, and did he have his arm around her? Oh, and most important, did he not know about mourning periods? It had been just over two months since we’d broken up! That was way too soon! And what, I had to ask, was he doing referring to himself as “Willy”? That was just wrong.
I couldn’t think about Greta the Swedish Slut any longer. I was about to go lie down and smother myself with a pillow when I decided, again rather fatefully, to check that one other sent e-mail. After all, maybe it was Wilhelm e-mailing Dustin, saying something like “Hey, Dustin, Grandma Greta’s in town and hurt her back, so I gotta help her into the hot tub. Oh, and it’s her birthday, so we’ll be celebrating with a tasty bundt cake. Join us if you want, but don’t get freaked out if she calls me Willy. You know grandmas.”
All right, even I didn’t think it was really going to be like that, but I certainly didn’t think it would be this:
Miss Simons,
It must have been fate to run into you again on one of my last nights in Los Angeles. Many evenings I would drive by the bar hoping to see you outside, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. In fact, I went back to the bar the night after we met, looking for you. Many times I would think of you and your beautiful smile. Well, my dear, you are even more beautiful than I remembered…
I stopped. I couldn’t read any more. I didn’t have to be told there was no way Miss Simons was his grandma. I didn’t have to be told he was moving on, or that he was dating, or that he was kissing girls who weren’t me. The knowledge pushed against my skin; it twisted my stomach, stung my eyes. There was something else too, something else I felt that was quickly surfacing, climbing, climbing, climbing, rising like a torpedo….
Ah. Anger.
Lovely, happy, wonderful anger.
This Miss Simons had gotten an all-out love letter, and I’d gotten “Thanks for the good times.” I was still recovering, and he was dating. I was still reeling from all the false promises he’d told about our future, and the secrets he’d kept, while he had Greta in a hot tub.
Suddenly I felt calm. I knew what I needed to do; I was on a mission. My mental gearshift had kicked into stealth mode, and all of a sudden I possessed the methodical mind and steel heart of a secret agent. I scanned the last line of the e-mail to the smoking, wall-leaning Miss Simons (“Please call me, for I long to see you before I leave”), copied the entire thing, opened up a new e-mail in his account, typed in Greta’s address, then hit paste and send.
Next mission. I created a phony Hotmail account, hit the write message button, and started typing.
Dear Miss Simons,
You don’t know me, but I feel the need to write you. I’ve been dating Wilhelm rather seriously and he accidentally sent me the e-mail below…one that was obviously intended for you. Not that you have any reason to listen to me, but I wanted to warn you that this guy is a major player, and a lying, cheating, untrustworthy jerk. Oh, and he gave me crabs.
—A friend
I stared at what I’d written. My mind was beginning to come out of stealth mode and was debating whether this was wise or healthy or perhaps just wrong—though my hand must still have belonged to the secret agent, because it ignored everything and simply hit send. Oh no, I thought once the e-mail was gone, I should’ve been more specific. She might not realize that when I referred to his giving me crabs, I’d meant seafood, as in sautéed soft-shell crabs, fried king crab legs, and imperial crabs! I mean, Wilhelm loved to cook crab. Bad Sarah, that was very unclear of you. Heh-heh.
I sat back. I could practically feel the e-mails spiraling their way toward the Swedish beauty queen and the beautiful, smoking, smiling Miss Simons. Surely they’d be miffed, especially Greta, who’d realize that as she was turning into a prune in the hot tub, good ol’ Willy was writing e-mails to other girls, and not doing a very good job addressing them either, I might add. But you know, e-mails get sent to the wrong people all the time. These things happen. Greta, I’m sorry he was so careless. May I hand you a towel?
The great thing about the meds, I was learning, was that in a situation like this they held me upright, whereas unmedicated I without a doubt would’ve been reduced to a heaving mass on the floor. But now? Now I was sane enough to fully explore my insanity.
I figured I’d have some time to kill before the shit hit the fan, so I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. Upon my return I noticed that Wilhelm had a new e-mail. Greta. Apparently she hadn’t left for the hot tub yet and had just received Willy’s latest e-mail.
I opened it. I leaned in. Boy, I noted right away, that Greta sure had a temper. It was truly beautiful. She mercilessly railed against him for being so stupid as to send her an e-mail intended for another woman, made catty comments about the girl with the beautiful smile, and then demanded to know just how he could be so cold as to be romancing more than one woman. Yep, I thought, I’m with ya on that one, sister. But then I kept reading and discovered, with dismay, that at the end she actually apologized for being angry, saying she
realized she had no right. No right? Was she serious? I wanted to shake her. I wanted to scream, “He’s got you all lined up for the hot tub while he e-mails other girls! Just how low is your self-esteem that you don’t think you deserve better?”
Greta was pathetic. I checked my phony account, but of course Miss Simons hadn’t replied. And why would she? She was obviously a very beautiful woman; there was no reason she’d be at home, alone, drinking wine and checking e-mails on a Saturday night. Sigh.
Over the course of the next few days I was gifted with endless entertainment at the hands of Greta and Wilhelm. With something I could describe as fevered joy, I’d race to the computer for updates several times a day, thrilled to catch up on the latest drama, the newest installment in their saga. It seemed that what Greta had meant in saying she had no right, was that she had no right to ask Wilhelm not to see other women since she herself was married. That was a twist I hadn’t expected. Also, within a matter of time her I-have-no-right attitude quickly disappeared and instead she became simply mean. Her poor husband. Not only was he being duped, but from what I could tell, he was married to a very bitchy woman. Still, her evil comments and digs gave me great pleasure, as Wilhelm had obviously been in need of having a lesson pounded into him.