Canadian Slumber Party (Part One)

A dumbfounded feeling swept over me when the Intern poignantly questioned to what extent of what I had been telling the rest of the circus about my December mishap was true. Perhaps it was the stark realization that no one else really prodded me to see if there was validity in my assertion that I had really attempted to “off” myself. It is, and should be, duly noted that I have always enjoyed toying with and rattling figures of authority, especially in what is meant to be a controlled environment. Anyway, I do suppose that I didn’t really have the intention to actually finish the job; I just wanted to hurt myself pretty badly – to wake up from this dormouse appearance, if you will – and saying that I tried to kill myself was the easiest way to describe what had happened for the umpteenth time to whatever new circus member I was introduced to in the month long period between the incident and the meeting with the Intern.

Saw this on flickr, and enjoyed the comment: 'I now have to see my stupid psychiatrist every week. I hate that woman. HATE her.'

And somewhere in all of this mess, I had inserted somewhere another consultation with the Cat Lady. Albeit, the Lexapro had alleviated some of the lethargy that I had experienced with the Zoloft, but I was still gravitationally attracted to my bed like a puddle to a sidewalk, in addition to a trouble concentrating on anything. The Cat Lady assured me that the side effects would eventually peter out, and would toss in the occasional diagnosis of “maybe you have ADD,” but in the meanwhile, we would increase my dosage to treat the barely changed mood. And to that, I wanted to (and probably should have, in retrospect) contest the increase in medication, but I figured that it would only be appropriate to continue placing my trust in the drug doling “professional,” and so I blindly complied.

Bref. The next time I saw the Intern after our late January meeting was the day before Valentine’s Day. More jittery than usual, I couldn’t help but fidget with everything in sight and bounce my knee up and down. It was a struggle to stay awake for school, work, and fashion week, and the frustration with the Cat Lady’s medication “advice” was beginning to take its toll. Describing the distress I felt to the Intern was like watching a dormant volcano slowly wake; all that wanted to be said was at the tip of my tongue bubbling, but I couldn’t form the slew of words into phrases. Funny to note, that on Saturdays, the offices are borrowed – well, the Intern borrowed an office in any case, whether it be the usual weekday or the Saturday – and so the way the rooms were assigned, the Cat Lady was right next door to the room I sat in with the Intern. And so the pillow that I was tossing up and down in the air, which wasn’t out of the norm for me, became a vehicle to express my discontent. Imagining where the Cat Lady was sitting if the wall between her weekend office and the one I sat in was nonexistent, I threw the pillow in said direction.

Unfortunately, pillows can’t travel through walls. They can, though, hit objects in the room. And so the pillow slammed into a lamp. Unbeknown to me until two weeks later when the Intern told me, the edge of the lamp had in fact tore the pillow, and the lamp itself would be more useful as a right-angle triangle for art class, as opposed to its original use. I didn’t realize any of what had happened. In fact, I moved onto my next distraction: frantically raking the table-top zen garden with sand getting all over the table. In effect, I trashed the office in my forty minutes.

Sunday evening rolled on by, and with the following day being an observed holiday (President’s Day for the curious), I opted to head out with some friends to a couple of NYFW parties. And in fact, it was pretty rad at Milk Studios with the close-knit atmosphere, open bar, and Semi Precious Weapons performing ten feet away from me, followed by lounging atop the Gansevoort. Having had quite a bit to drink, I opted to head back to Union Sq to grab a slice of pizza with a friend while the others partied on. And if anything worrisome was to be noted, my friend would have noticed as she dropped me back off at Gramercy, but there wasn’t anything alarmed about me.

Now mind you, I lived alone in that studio apartment. My roommate had inexplicably moved out at the beginning January, and notified no one, and so she ended up paying for the semester’s NYU housing. I grabbed the phone to chat with the Occasional Gauloise. Perhaps it’d be best to mention that at times, my jokes can warrant a little concern if you don’t know me all that well. And with December’s antic, it only seemed to heightened people’s “worry” alarms. In any case, it wasn’t really what the Occasional Gauloise had in mind when calling Wellness Exchange soon after I hung up and fell asleep. Somehow the intention of having Wellness send my RA (resident assistant) to my room and to knock on my door to ensure I had gulped down some water was lost or misunderstood, because quite the opposite unfolded.

Image courtesy of flickr.com (user: everyshadeofgrey)