by Mandy White
As I grew, so did my shyness. My struggle to fit in as a teen led to heavy drinking. When I drank, I was no longer invisible. Alcohol made me bold, colorful and fearless.
By age twenty I couldn’t accomplish any activity without the assistance of my intoxicating ally. I drank every day, rationing my alcohol intake to maintain the optimal level of bravado while remaining sober enough to appear in control. I drove, worked, went shopping, and had fun; all with the help of my best buddy, booze.
As I approached age thirty, symptoms of my alcoholism became impossible to ignore: blackouts, appearing intoxicated after only a few drinks, and the inability to stop once I’d had a taste. ‘Just one drink’ always led to a binge that wouldn’t end until I was unconscious.
It had been all fun and games when I was twenty years old and everybody else was getting wasted too, but the older I got, the more pathetic my drunkenness looked. Alcohol was like that fickle best friend – always there to instigate mischief, but disappeared when it was time to face the consequences. I wasn’t sure exactly when I’d made the transition from fun to pathetic, but I was tired of embarrassing myself and others.
I quit drinking and abandoned all acquaintances who drank. The problem was, I never got around to making new friends.
Sobriety had its downside, I soon discovered: depression, anxiety and loneliness.
I fell briefly back into drinking in hopes of regaining that happy feeling, but the magic was gone. Alcohol made the depression worse. Instead of the desired euphoria, drinking made me feel hopeless and melancholy. The aftermath of binge drinking was also worse. The headache was bearable, but the crippling despair that accompanied each hangover was more than I could endure.
Afraid for my health and personal safety, I parted company with my fickle friend for good and sought medical help. My doctor prescribed antidepressants and I set about putting my life back together.
I took a job with a large advertising agency. It was easy work – mostly filing and data entry. I liked the anonymity of being a common office drone who blended easily into her surroundings. I didn’t have much interaction with others, a situation that suited me just fine.
Even though my job was low-key and undemanding, the stress of having to fit into a rigid schedule heightened my anxiety. My doctor explained that anxiety and depression are closely linked even though they appear to be opposites. Dr. Ross adjusted the dosage of my medication and added another prescription for the anxiety. I was able to cope… somewhat.
I still dreaded social events, especially holidays. Instead of looking upon the month of December as a time of celebration, I regarded it as an illness to be endured and recovered from. The holiday season was like an annual menstrual period – unavoidable, uncomfortable, with six hellish weeks of glitter-filled PMS leading up to it. Fortunately, I had alienated what little family I had with my uncontrolled drinking, sparing myself the annual hell of the family holiday dinner.
Though I was safe from my family, the threat of dinner invitations always loomed from other avenues. If my co-workers happened to find out I was going to be ‘alone’ for the holidays they seemed to feel obligated to invite me to their garish displays of gluttony. It never occurred to anyone that I preferred to be alone. I developed a number of strategies for avoiding those inevitable invitations. I would mention that I was hosting dinner for close family members – a lie, of course. I didn’t want people invading my personal space any more than I liked being trapped in theirs. The mere thought of entertaining guests made my chest tighten and pulse increase. What if I wanted them to leave and they refused?
In summertime, long weekends held a similar threat. Everyone seemed to have a cottage somewhere and invitations were tossed about like so much confetti. I would make a point of mentioning plans to travel out of town to circumvent impending invitations. I never went anywhere, of course. Instead, I locked myself inside my house with the curtains closed to make it appear nobody was home.
My two week vacation from work was the same. I hung thick blankets over the windows and doors to prevent the outside world from seeing me moving around inside the house. I shut my phone off and enjoyed a wonderful holiday free from intrusions. I often fantasized about being stranded alone on a tropical island where nobody could find me, phone me or knock on my door.
My obsession with privacy escalated until I looked forward to hiding in my house more than anything. I had once enjoyed gardening, but my beloved flower beds were now overgrown with weeds and grass. I wished I could take care of them, but every time I ventured outside to work in the yard, some neighbor found it necessary to start a conversation with me. Nosy, nosy… people were just so nosy! Did it matter if I was having a nice day or whether it looked like rain? Can’t a person enjoy her garden without being bombarded with stupid questions? Apparently not, so I stopped going outside.
As my isolation progressed, another phobia surfaced: telephones. I couldn’t bring myself to answer a phone unless I knew exactly who was calling and what they wanted. I avoided the phone at work, often leaving my desk the moment it rang. If someone answered the phone and tried to hand it to me, I ran away, using the excuse that I urgently needed to use the bathroom. My co-workers whispered amongst themselves out of earshot, sneaking subtle glances in my direction. They thought I didn’t notice. If only they knew how transparent they were.
Hiding my phobias had become a full-time job. It was too exhausting. I decided I could no longer work for that company.
I imagined working from the safety of my home – free from ringing phones and nosy people. Online employment was the answer to any agoraphobic’s prayers.
Agoraphobic. I wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but that was what I was.
To me, the outside world was like a zombie apocalypse. I felt as though hands were constantly pawing at me, each trying to claw its chunk of flesh from my body. Doorbells, ringing phones, people everywhere demanding attention. The only time I felt truly safe was behind the locked doors of my home. Even then, I sensed intruders prowling outside, waiting for me to emerge; waiting to ambush me… sniffing around the cracks of windows and doors, knocking, ringing… hoping I’d be stupid enough to answer.
I did most of my shopping online, minimizing the number of times I had to physically leave the house. Other than doctor appointments or refilling my gas tank, I almost never ventured outside. When shopping was unavoidable, I went early in the morning to avoid lineups and chance encounters with acquaintances. I had neither the time nor the patience for awkward conversations with people who felt obligated to talk to me. If I spied a familiar face, I avoided eye contact by staring at my cell phone and pretending to read a message.
I had nothing to say to any of my old cohorts. They were from a time in my life I had no desire to revisit. Word had gotten out that I was sober, which made things even more awkward. They might invite me to catch up on old times over coffee or tea, not understanding that without alcohol I was incapable of carrying on a comfortable conversation.
I felt safe while driving, because my car was sort of like a second little home. I could lock the doors and feel secure. I’d had the windows lightly tinted – just enough to shield me from unwanted stares, but not so dark as to make onlookers curious enough to stare. My car was my only means of transportation; I couldn’t take public transit or taxis because I couldn’t bear being at the mercy of another driver. When I was driving, I was secure in the knowledge that I had the freedom to come and go as I pleased.
If I was not the driver, the vehicle became a trap and a panic attack followed. The last time my car was in the shop, I’d tried taking the bus home, but the anxiety made me so nauseous I was terrified I would vomit on the bus while everyone stared. I frantically rang the bell and jumped off at the next stop without bothering to see where I was. I ended up walking for miles through unfamiliar neighborhoods before finally making it home.
I called the mechanic and asked him to deliver the vehicle to my home, promising a large tip for his troub
le. After that, it became routine for my mechanic to pick up and deliver my car whenever it needed maintenance.
Trips away from home became shorter and less frequent because of a nagging fear that something terrible was going to happen to my house while I wasn’t there to protect it. The thought of losing my beloved sanctuary terrified me. Every time I left the house, I worried that I would come home to a blazing fire, a sinkhole or a burst pipe. Before I went anywhere, I checked and rechecked the stove, furnace and all other electrical appliances. I touched electrical cords to see if they were hot. Eventually I just went around unplugging everything before leaving the house – in the interest of safety, of course – one couldn’t be too careful. Kitchen appliances, televisions, lamps, clocks… all had to be unplugged before each outing. When I returned, I had to plug everything back in and reset the clocks. Leaving the house was becoming more trouble than it was worth.
When my doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist I refused, because it meant seeing a new doctor in a new location and more trips away from home. Plus, a psychiatrist would want to cure me. He would force me out of my comfort zone and make me do things I didn’t want to do. My doctor kept pushing the issue, so I let him refer me to a psychiatrist just to shut him up. Also, I was curious.
The shrink turned out to be a quack. He phoned me to introduce himself before making an appointment for me. To be exact, he left a message on my answering machine and then I phoned him back because I was unable to answer calls from unknown numbers – something he would have known if he had read the information in my file.
That was strike one.
The conversation went well, until the shrink mentioned that group therapy would be a mandatory part of my treatment.
Strike two. Nobody used the word mandatory with me and got away with it. Then he said something that made me change my mind about ever going to see him in person.
He said, “You will be able to make it to all the appointments, won’t you? I can’t have anybody missing appointments once they are scheduled.”
Strike three. You’re out, Doctor Know-It-All!
The next day I called the clinic to cancel the appointment and didn’t reschedule. I never contacted them again. What kind of a psychiatrist was he if he didn’t understand my condition? Didn’t he understand that I had days when I simply could not cope with the outside world? My regular doctor was used to having me reschedule appointments on bad days.
Throughout all of this, I managed to fake my way through life and maintain a tenuous hold on my job.
I began to do more of my work from home. I called in sick more often than I appeared at the office in person. My co-workers’ sour expressions made clear their displeasure that, in their opinions, I was being given preferential treatment. I sensed my supervisor shared their sentiments, but found no fault with the quality or quantity of work I was doing. Poor attendance and avoidance of phone calls were my only indiscretions. Nonetheless, I saw termination in my near future. I dreaded the humiliation of being fired, then having to clean out my desk amid all the gossipy whispers of the office staff. I made the decision to quit before he had the chance to fire me, then I could pretend I’d had a lucrative offer from another firm. Another lie, but at least I would be leaving on my terms.
It was for that reason I found myself in the path of an out-of-control vehicle on a rain-drenched highway that morning. If only I’d listened to my gut instinct that day – I hadn’t felt like leaving the house at all. I shrugged off the feeling of impending doom and gathered the courage to face my workplace one last time. Just one more time and then I’d be free, I’d told myself.
And now, it seemed, I was free. Free from that life, but now what?
What was I to do with my newly found freedom?
~*~
~ 5 ~
Down the Rabbit Hole
I’d always enjoyed my solitude, but since I’d been home from the hospital the house felt different. The silence that I usually found comforting now felt thick and heavy. For the first time since I quit drinking, I felt truly alone.
I didn’t need to find another job. I had plenty of money in the bank – one who didn’t travel or entertain didn’t have much in the way of expenses. As long as I could order the things I needed, I could survive in comfort for at least a year while building my online business. I wasn’t yet sure what type of business I wanted to start, but I had plenty of time to think and research. In the meantime, I told myself, I should be enjoying the peace and be grateful to be alive and relatively unscathed after such a devastating crash.
The Internet was my usual source of entertainment, but my service hadn’t been working properly since I’d been home. I couldn’t connect to anything except email, but there was never anything new. I tried to call my Internet provider, but there was no answer, just like at my office. My phone didn’t seem to be working properly either. Sometimes I heard a dial tone when I picked up the receiver, other times I was greeted with the sound of a ringing phone, even though I hadn’t dialed yet. My cell phone had been in my car when the accident happened, so it was either lost or smashed beyond repair. In order to get a replacement, I’d have to either leave the house or get my land line working. I tried not to panic at the thought of being cut off from the outside world. I relied on my communications systems for everything. I couldn’t even order a grocery delivery without a phone or Internet.
I checked the pantry and fridge. They were still full. I hadn’t had much appetite since my return home. When had I last eaten? And what had I eaten? I couldn’t remember.
The house smelled like disinfectant, as if it had been cleaned recently, but I couldn’t remember doing any cleaning. The house looked spotless, so I must have cleaned it. I knew I’d been doing a lot of sleeping and very little eating, so I hadn’t had much chance to make a mess.
The memory loss troubled me. Why couldn’t I remember cleaning the house? Why couldn’t I remember my hospital stay, or being released?
How did I get home?
My car was totaled so I knew I hadn’t driven. If someone else had driven me, why hadn’t they checked on me to see how I was doing?
I pushed the thoughts away.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Dana.
I finally had what I wanted, so why question it? The logical thing to do was enjoy it.
The days blended into weeks… at least I thought they did. My perception of time seemed distorted, so I was only guessing. The calendar on my laptop wouldn’t give me an honest answer; it always read the same date: May 21st – the day of the accident. All of the calendars in my home were turned to May as well. I spent a lot of time sleeping, as far as I could tell, and it was always dark outside when I woke.
I hadn’t taken any of my medications since I’d been home out of fear that I would run out and have to leave the house to refill the prescriptions. The strange thing was, I’d never felt better. No depression and no anxiety as long as I remained in the safety of home. I slept like a hibernating bear, and without any medication, I dreamed every time I slept.
* * *
I woke to darkness. Not the usual dark I saw outside my windows, but the kind of inky blackness where you can’t make out faint shapes or shadows or even see your hand in front of your face.
I was lying in bed. If I was in my own bed, it was unusual for the room to be in total darkness because I always slept with the TV on. The screen provided the perfect night-light and the soothing background noise masked all the creepy creaks and other empty-house noises. I reached to turn the lamp on but found that my arms wouldn’t move.
Someone was standing over my bed. In the blackness I sensed more than saw the presence.
A muffled voice spoke, “Shh… it’s okay. You’ve been in an accident. You’re going to be fine.”
Backlit by a soft light that seemed to appear from nowhere, a human figure came into view. The man wore mint-green scrubs splashed with crimson and the lower half of his face was covered with a bloodstained surgic
al mask. His eyes were dark, almost black, with bloodshot whites. He was holding a hypodermic syringe – the old-fashioned type – a huge stainless steel cylindrical instrument of torture with a long plunger and big round finger-holes. It looked like something a mad scientist in an old horror movie might use in his laboratory of terror.
“Just hold still now. This might hurt a bit.” He chuckled softly.
I wasn’t convinced. I’d been afraid of needles ever since I could remember. I terrorized my entire Kindergarten class with blood-curdling screams the day we all lined up to receive our booster shots. Blood tests made me faint, from both the needle and the blood. The one time I’d had surgery and woke with an IV in my hand, I screamed and screamed until a nurse came and removed it.
He lowered the needle toward my neck. I tried to squirm away from him, but found myself unable to move.
NO! Get that thing away from me! I screamed, but no sound came out. I was completely paralyzed and at the mercy of the nightmare doctor.
As I felt the jab of the needle I was aware I was dreaming, but felt the effects of the injection nonetheless. A warm buzz flowed through my body as the dream drug entered my bloodstream.
I have to force myself to wake up. If I force myself to sit up in my sleep I will wake up.
I focused all of my will on trying to sit up.
It worked!
I sprang into an upright sitting position.
My bedroom looked normal again and the doctor was gone. I rubbed my neck where the needle had pierced my skin, still feeling the remnants of the needle-prick sensation.
My TV was turned on, tuned to an old Twilight Zone episode set in a hospital, which explained the weirdness. I giggled, relieved. I felt silly, getting all freaked out by a dream brought on by a TV show.