by Anna Dorn
“Jaxy,” I say, standing in the window frame so that I’m physically looking down on everyone. “Do you like Kraftwerk?”
“Fuck no,” he says, then unleashes one of his classic cackles.
I grin and then ask Beau to get me a beer.
Soon it’s fully dark and I still haven’t taken any notes. I’ve just been chatting. I feel the buzz of the Vyvanse wearing off, so I go into the bathroom and break a pill in half and pour a sprinkle of beads onto my tongue. I have no idea why I’m being secretive about it when I’m surrounded by drug addicts. Maybe I just want it all to myself.
When I emerge from the bathroom in Jax’s room, Nina is standing right there. “Go ahead,” I say, making way for her to enter.
“I don’t have to go,” she says. Then she lies down on the bed. She’s wearing a black silk tank, lacy on the top, with her normal mom jeans. My gaze meets the freckles at the top of her breasts and I quickly look away. But she seems to have seen me. Fucking writers. They see everything.
“Okay,” I say, and then start to head out back to the group. I know the Vyvanse couldn’t possibly have hit yet, but I feel a little pep in my step.
“Wait,” she says.
I flip my head around in a way that I hope looks dramatic and glamorous.
She pats the seat next to her on the bed. I take a second to decide whether to obey. Obedience is for people with low IQs. Dogs are obedient. So instead of sitting next to her I just pivot fully toward her and lean in the doorframe.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Why are you being weird?”
God, what an annoying question. I’m an artist. I’m always weird. That’s the point. “Are you gonna put this conversation in your story?”
She shrugs, bites her lip. She does look cute. “You’re very hard to read, Prue Van Teesen.”
“My full name… am I in trouble?”
She slinks toward me, sexy as hell. Fuck.
“Do you want to be?” She strokes my face.
I shrug.
“I still have a crush on you, you know,” she says. I’m pretty sure this is the first time she’s said this to me.
“Then why did you make out with that greasy boy in front of my face?”
She laughs, but I’m embarrassed. I hope I don’t sound crazed.
“You know I’m poly,” she says.
Oh god. Poly. How boring. She’s like fucking María Elena, storming in from the mental hospital to ruin my life. But María Elena would never call herself “poly.” She’s a romantic, not a New Age loser.
Oh. That’s it.
“Get me behind the cushions!” I shout when I’m back in the main room.
“Here she is!” Jax yells with glee.
I strut in clutching a PBR in my hand and my cell phone in the other. I look at my phone as if I’ve written something down but I haven’t. Soon my body is moving like a wave and I’m seeing the bass in color. A light blue fog undulates out of the speakers and into my mattress cave. The smoke surrounds me and soon the words are coming out mint green, dancing in the periwinkle. My eyes hit Jax, then Nina. And then I’m gone.
Popping dolls
New Age molly
Not my purse
New age folly
Nothing worse
Than being obvi
Nothing worse than
Than being poly
Someone’s toy
Another’s dolly
My stomach sinks as soon as I leave the cushions. Everyone is looking at me and I can’t tell what they think. The Vyvanse is crashing. Beau snaps my picture and I push his camera away.
“The fuck?” he says.
“Don’t snap at her,” Jax says. I see him as a lion defending his pride.
“Especially after snapping me,” I say, and then I click my tongue the way Jax does sometimes.
“You’re such a spaz,” Beau mumbles under his breath as he storms out of the panes, cradling his camera like a wounded child.
Pilar puts her arm around me. My shoulder is covered in blue feathers. “I think he’s on his period,” she whispers in my ear.
I shrug it off. I need more Vyvanse. But that would be crazy. I eye the time on Jax’s monitor. It’s after midnight. I’ve already had two tonight, but I want that high again. I should probably get back behind the cushions. This is supposed to be our final night of recording, our final song. I have to give Jax as much to work with as possible.
“I have a nice little hook in my head for this beat,” Pilar coos toward me.
“Get in there, babygirl,” Jax says.
I take this moment to sneak out. Beau is tinkering with his camera on the couch. I attempt to slink past without him noticing me. In the bathroom, I open my Altoid tin and pour my third sprinkle of Vyvanse onto my tongue. I have only two pills left. It’s okay. I need them tonight.
When I open the door, I kind of hope Nina will be on the other side. But she’s gone.
The next day I’m sitting at my kitchen table sipping ice water with lemon and refreshing Twitter. The sun is bright as hell and I’m still buzzing. I’ve had about a fifteen-year routine of waking up in the mornings and drinking coffee and working on something: writing an essay for school, studying for a test, writing a brief, composing a rap. But I have no cases and the EP is done (I think), and I’m not totally sure what to do with myself. I decide to work on some new rhymes. I mean, I’m not sure what I recorded last night will be workable. Jax and Yumiko seemed to like it, but they’re always hyping me up. I open my “Raps” document and stare at it for a few seconds, then go back to Twitter.
I search for Kanye’s name. He deactivated his Twitter about six months ago and I keep hoping he’ll come back. Poets are amazing at Twitter. I imagine him in Wyoming, in some minimal industrial studio tucked into a mountain valley, perfect acoustics, phone locked away in some box by the powers that be. God, I can’t wait for someone to lock my phone up.
A new Gmail pops up. It’s from Dr. Kim. I thought he’d forgotten about me.
Hi Prudence,
Sorry for the late reply. I was out of town and just returned last night. Do you want to schedule an appointment to discuss the adderall?
—Dr. Kim
Plot twist. I like that he didn’t capitalize “adderall.” Also, he didn’t ask me about how I’m doing on the lowered SSRI dosage, which I stopped taking entirely. This man really doesn’t give a shit about me. I can’t blame him. He just wants a check. Dr. Feelgood.
I write him back.
Hi Dr. Kim,
Thanks for getting back to me. My schedule is pretty open right now, so I can come at earliest appointment time you have available. Afternoons are better.
Best,
Prue
After pressing send, I return to Twitter. I have three new followers. I now have more than three thousand. I type “Dearly Queerly” in the search window and watch the results appear. The first one makes me smile.
still spinning dearly queerly on repeat… shiny AF GIVE US MORE!!!!
The next one is less positive.
the world still sux but at least we’re over dearly queerly
That stings a bit. But it also feels good. The fact that this sad individual is pleading the world to be “over” the track means that at one point it was under it. Then I search my name.
can someone please tell me WHO prue van teesen aka “vagablonde” is FUCKING?!? like… who gave this bitch a mic?
I type Nina’s name in the reply box, giggle, take a screenshot, but don’t upload it.
There is something refreshing about watching people talk shit about me on the internet. I used to joke about looking forward to this moment. I think about Kanye. “My haters are my motivators.” I mean, you have to care to really hate someone. Plus, I have so much negative self-talk, it’s nice to hear an external voice to these thoughts. Like, objective evidence. I’m right. I suck. The point is people are thinking about me and expressing these thoughts on a public forum. That mea
ns I’m something. I’m not invisible. I exist. I matter.
There are lots of replies to the tweet.
FOR REAL. homegirl disgraces the english language and the human voice in a way i never thot (lol she looks like one) possible
Well, I like the way he expresses himself. I guess I shouldn’t assume it’s a man just because he thinks he’s funnier than he is.
The next reply says, did you see the nude photos of her???? she look good tho.
My face gets hot. The next tweet is a link to Ixland Prinxexxa. I close out Twitter.
I check iMessage and am excited to see an unread message from Nina. FKA Twigs’s “Two Weeks” comes on, my favorite song about unrequited longing, a song that sums up my twenties. But I’m not dreaming anymore.
Am I your muse? Nina texts me.
I click to my Gmail browser. I don’t need to answer right away. I’m trying to remember how the previous night ended. I see flashes. I got back in the cushions, I’m pretty sure. Probably disgraced the human voice or whatever. The word “Krautrock” jumps into my head, then fades. I see Yumiko’s parka, the jab of her gun. The repetition of these images comforts me, then my stomach sinks. The darkness is coming. I need more Vyvanse. I have two left. I open my mini Altoid tin. There’s only one pill. I feel worried. I normally keep better track of these things.
I have an unread email from Dr. Kim.
Hi Prue,
I have tomorrow and Thursday at 3 p.m. If one of those doesn’t work, let me know and we’ll work out another date.
—DK
Oh my word! “DK.” Dr. Kim is getting intimate!
I’ll see you tomorrow at 3.
I think about asking if he has anything today, but I don’t want to sound too desperate.
No, I text back to Nina.
The sun is predictably bright when I drive west the next day to “DK’s.” I leave at 2:00, just to be safe. I’d woken up only a few hours earlier. Last night I took the last Vyvanse and tried to write. I mainly just listened to Lana Del Rey and produced several pages of ugly, obsessive scribbles. I hope I at least enjoyed myself. My memory is foggy. Neither cat was there when I left.
As I curve onto the 10, someone is honking. Someone is always honking at you on the freeway in LA. I think of Clueless, that scene where Cher and D accidentally end up on the freeway and start screaming, petrified by cars zooming all around them and the imposing concrete dividers between safety and danger. I feel this way whenever I go to the West Side, as soon as the 10 straightens out. It must be, like, ten lanes. Concrete walls on both sides. The palm trees that hang over look especially dry, dirty, and flammable. Massive hunks of metal zoom by in every direction.
My palms sweat on the wheel. I turn up the air conditioner and pull my face up toward it. I try to slow down my breathing. I hear the air coming in and out, but I don’t feel it. I wipe my wet hands on the wheel. A car cuts in front of me, then weaves through some more cars. The traffic starts to slow down. I roll behind a Jeep with a bumper sticker that says: BEWARE OF DRIVER. I swallow.
I reach for my phone and my hand is shaking. My palms are sweating so much that I can hardly grip the phone. I go to my Insight Timer app and click “SOS Meditation for Panic” just when traffic moves. I press the gas and wonder if I really know how to drive. If I press the pedal too hard, I could crash into another car and kill us both.
The woman’s voice comes on, soft and breathy. You might be feeling very anxious right now, but that is normal given your circumstances.
Why is it normal for me to feel anxious under these circumstances? I’m just driving to my psychiatrist’s to get more pills to feel the best I can. I’m not in a war zone. I’m not about to take the bar exam or perform on Conan.
You may feel very scared right now, but that is only a feeling. Try not to fight it. Instead, just notice.
I notice and realize I’m freaking the fuck out. I need to get off this highway. But I can’t. I have to be able to get through this. I’m just driving across town. I’m thirty years old. I need my medicine. I’m about to be a celebrity. I can’t be having this kind of anxiety right now. I remind myself that I’ve driven across the country thrice. I can drive across town.
Notice the air coming in and out of your nose.
I notice the air, but I’m convinced I’m not breathing. My iPhone tells me I’ll be at Dr. Kim’s in fifteen minutes. It’ll take longer to get home. I may as well stick it out. But I worry about the drive home.
I wonder if maybe this isn’t a panic attack. Maybe it’s a reaction to the Vyvanse, an allergic reaction that requires actual medical intervention. Maybe the pills were laced with fentanyl. A car honks and I press the pedal, as lightly as possible. The car honks again and I speed up a bit. I won’t drive any quicker than necessary.
Listen to the sounds around you. Feel supported by the earth under your sit bones.
The phrase “sit bones” always makes me uneasy. I don’t feel supported by the earth. Earth is spinning in space. How could I possibly feel supported by this rock that might explode at any moment or get hit by another rock? The earth under my “sit bones” is probably a fucking fault line. It could start shaking and I could fall into a sinkhole and burn alive in the earth’s core. I focus on the sounds, but all I hear are strident horns and ignitions rumbling. A motorcycle zooms past my window.
Traffic starts to speed up and I relax for a brief moment. I eye my phone. Only a few minutes until the exit. I got this. The panic is probably fading. I feel silly and shut off the meditation. Kendrick’s “Humble” blasts from KDAY, and it’s so loud it shocks me a bit.
I look at all the lanes until the exit. I watch a hawk swoop into a tree, hungry for something. I focus on the road, but it reflects the sun and hurts my eyes. Focus on your breath! I yell at myself.
Another motorcycle zooms around me and I focus on making my exit.
By the time I get out of the car, I’m weak and shaky. I hope Dr. Kim has benzo samples on him, because Vaga needs one. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and then pull my sunglasses closer to my face. I have my big sunglasses on, but the sun is still too bright. Everyone on the street looks like an avatar. I feel like I’m in a video game. I don’t trust this neighborhood.
Dr. Kim’s office is at the top of a tall and soulless building. Inside the elevator, I have the urge to sit down. I don’t think my legs can carry me.
In the waiting room, I stare at a Rolling Stone cover from three years ago and cross and uncross my legs. I wonder if I died on the highway and this is hell.
“Prudence.” Dr. Kim is in the doorway, standing rigidly, straight out of a damn computer simulation. I want to run. I want to go home and take a Klonopin and crawl into my bed and never get up. But to do that I’d have to get on the freeway, which I don’t think I can ever face again. Maybe I can order a helicopter.
“Hi,” I say. My voice sounds calm. I probably look elegant as hell. I got this.
As I walk over to the couch, I try not to look out his massive windows that glow neon yellow. I almost instinctively walk over to close the blinds, but that would be rude, so instead I sit down. I wipe my palms on my pants.
I look at Dr. Kim, who is already seated in the chair across from me, looking tired and sad. I wonder what’s going on with him. Does he have a newborn? A book proposal due? A second family? He appears to be under some major stress, and for some reason that calms me.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m great,” I say. My chest tightens, as though my body is calling my bullshit. I swallow. “I haven’t really noticed any major difference from going off the Celexa.”
Dr. Kim nods vaguely. “That’s wonderful,” he says, his face seeming to just now put together that he’s prescribed me Celexa for two years. He then begins firing off his standard questions, seeming to read them from a clipboard on his lap.
“Exercise?”
“Still hiking.” Okay, pacing. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yep. I love sleep.” I wish I was in my bed right now. My stomach sinks thinking about the hoops it will take to get to my bed.
“Still with your girlfriend?”
“We broke up,” I say. “But it’s fine. It was mutual.” A white lie. No need to alarm him. “Being single is much better for me professionally.”
He looks at me a little confused, and I decide to elaborate.
“I’ve been having a major creative Renaissance.” I fumble over the phrasing, then remember it doesn’t matter. I’m here for business. Also, you know, the unrelenting panic in my gut. “I’ve joined a, err… “ I don’t want to say “rap group” because that makes me sound like a ‘90s teen with disciplinary issues, but “band” just sounds so lame. “I started a musical project with a few others—a very talented producer and singer—and we made a track that did quite well. We got a record deal and we’ve been hustling—err, working very hard to finish the EP—”
“How’s your legal practice?” Dr. Kim interrupts. I’m shocked, given that until this moment he didn’t entirely seem to know who I was. I switch gears, imagine that he’s my father.
“The advance from the record company was substantial enough that I was able to take a hiatus,” I say. “I’ll request more cases whenever the money gets low again, but I assume we’ll be able to tour soon, which is when the money really starts flowing.” I’m not totally sure about this. We’ve never performed, and I recall those panic attacks I got onstage as a child and think about the drive home and think about asking Dr. Kim to take me to a hospital. I look up at Dr. Kim, whose expression is hard to read.
“No dark moods? No bipolar episodes?”
“No dark moods,” I say. I try to focus on my breath, but my stomach feels tight, like it’s made of metal and can’t contract. “Wait, bipolar?” I’ve never been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, just anxiety and depression. And I guess, as I’m about to convince him, mild ADD.