I am supposed to be doing one of three things right now. I should be either a) doing a massive calculus review problem set for the midterm on Tuesday, b) programming a photo-uploader for Facebook on Android, or c) teaching myself basic C for my phone interview with Microsoft later this week. Instead, I am writing this blog, and not solely because I am a lazy ass. I’ve reached a low point in the last 48 hours. It’s been interesting.
Something that is important for you to know about me at this point is that I am on antidepressants. This is all well and good, but I am also a complete and total space cadet with the motivation and drive of an old, sprouted potato that someone found at the back of their cupboard a month ago, took out, eyed dubiously, and put back, theorizing that by not changing the status quo they could remain in denial about its existence. So of course, when I ran out of happy pills on Thursday, I figured I’d get some on Friday. I think you see where this is going. I use this little neighborhood pharmacy that is closed on Sundays. It’s a great place — they have an actual soda fountain, and $0.05 coffee (not kidding) and all that good stuff. But they’re fucking closed on Sundays. It’s not good. And of course I’m constitutionally incapable of remembering to do anything, so it didn’t occur to me to, like, go get my prescription refilled until about 8:00pm yesterday night, at which point, Ye Olde Apothecarie was closed for the weekend. Goodbye meds.
I picked a bad weekend to do this. Most weekends, I’d just do exactly no work for 4 days and probably wouldn’t leave the apartment the entire time. I’d lie in bed for 72 hours and read and sleep and maybe watch a little TV. Not this weekend. This is the weekend of the local ACM programming competition (Saturday — my team came in second, WHO’S going to regionals!), of the last crunch before I’m supposed to have written a photo uploader to Facebook for Android, of the last three days before my Multivariable Calculus midterm, and of the five-odd day lead-up period to my preliminary phone interview with Microsoft for a summer internship, for which I am apparently supposed to read up on C or C++ (neither of which I know) and think about what makes a good program. So not only am I ridiculously stressed, but I’m out of happy pills. This does not bode well.
On Friday I was pretty much fine. I can go about 48 hours without meds before I start to feel really funky. I went to class, did no work at all, and then went over to my friends’ apartment, hereafter referred to as Cloud City, because that’s what it’s called, met a cool dude, had a long conversation about rape culture, and got rather drunk. Then I went home at 4:00am to go to sleep so I could be at the programming competition by 1:00 on Saturday. We came in second. We’re going to regionals. We’re not going to win, but we may place at our location, and that’ll be fun.
The programming contest ran 4 and a half hours. So I got home around 5:30pm and by then I was feeling the lack of meds. My vision was getting weird, and my balance would periodically contemplate going bye-bye. I lurched off to CVS like an unfed, medless zombie in search of succor, hoping to beg them into giving me three or four pills as an advance on the prescription they couldn’t transfer from my regular pharmacy, because my regular pharmacy was closed. Things I learned on Saturday: CVS also closes its pharmacy early on weekends. So that went poorly. I got Starbucks, thought about having to learn C and interview with Microsoft sometime between next Wednesday and next Friday, and tried not to hyperventilate. Then I lurched off home, full of good intentions.
Fast forward four hours. I’m sitting in a cafe, hunched over my laptop and the C textbook I borrowed from my advisor, taking copious notes on for-loop syntax, having consumed a grilled cheese sandwich and about 60% of a big pile of french fries. Every five minutes or so, everything goes all textured behind my eyes and the light in the coffee shop gets really yellow. My shoulders are tense. I’ve forgotten how much fun it is to learn to program. I’m taking notes like a fiend. Halfway through the third paragraph on page 15, the entire world comes rushing up at me like a Viking waving a battle axe. All I can see is the color of the light; the floor seems to be breathing; the muscles in my arms are seriously considering going into a violent spasm; my heart speeds up; I’m breathing way too hard for a person sitting at a table, reading about programming languages. I put my arms down on my book and my head down on my arms and I shut my eyes and I take a few deep breaths. Then I open my eyes and I look at my book, glowering at me in the yellow light in this cafe, and realize that if I keep reading I’m going to have a panic attack. I text my friend Luke instead.
“You still up for hanging out?” I ask.
“Yes. You should come over,” he says.
“On my way.” I throw everything into my backpack, throw my backpack onto my back, and lurch out the door. Every fifty-odd seconds, the universe wraps a hand around my head and squeezes gently. I remain upright only because the squeeze only lasts a few milliseconds. It’s well after dark — I don’t remember it getting dark, and when did it get to be 9:00? Fuck it — and completely overcast. The clouds at the horizon are shining white, and it’s about as dark out as late evening. I think about freaking out because I can see all the tree branches beautifully against the sky, and then decide not to think about it at all and keep going. Maybe three minutes later, I’m standing outside Cloud City, my thumb on the doorbell. I lock my knees and stare fixedly at the little coupon newspaper sitting on their front stoop. I do not fall down. I am not hyperventilating. I have my laptop and a book on C in my bag. I do not think about this.
Luke opens the door. “Hey,” he says.
I may say something to the effect of “oh thank god,” but all I remember is more or less staggering inside and leaning my nose and forehead into his sweater just below the vee collar and shutting my eyes. His sweater is sort of fuzzy. When I was over at Cloud City on Friday, he was wearing a button-down under this sweater. Now he’s just wearing the sweater, his chest hair peeking out of the collar. He looks just as good both ways. Luke is good at this.
“Are you okay?” says Luke.
“No,” I say. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. All I know is I refused to discuss why I had just almost had a panic attack in a coffee shop. We went upstairs to the apartment instead and, having divested myself of my jacket and backpack, I collapsed on the nearest available armchair, put my head back, and shut my eyes. I remained in more or less this posture for two or three hours, on various pieces of their furniture, while a lot of other people came and went around me. There was a great deal of drunkenness and guitar playing. I slowly feel myself calming down. Cloud City is this magical place where one can turn up at odd hours of the night, and there is always beer and tea, and someone congenial to talk to, and a place to sit, and Luke playing something noisy and agreeable on his ginormous speakers. It’s everyone’s favorite apartment. They’ve got a woven rug, an enormous porno collection, hardwood floors, a collection of armchairs in various stages of decay, a good-sized kitchen, and a smoking porch that is only supposed to hold four people, but regularly accommodates eight or nine. By the end of every weekend, every flat surface is completely covered in beer cans, dirty glasses, loose tobacco, and three or four unwashed college students in yesterday’s clothes, eating breakfast at 3:00 in the afternoon, of which I regularly am one. The milling collection of sweet and intelligent degenerates and drunkards who frequent Cloud City are invariably the nicest, funniest, least judgmental people on or off campus. In short, it’s the best place to be after dark when you don’t have to get up too early the next day. It staved off my panic attack in short order. Two beers, a longish pseudo-nap and a few shots of espresso later, I felt half-human again. The world had returned to a more or less normal texture and orientation, I was surrounded by congenial people talking about math and Star Trek, listening to girl punk, and drinking. I thought I might be able to walk normally for the first time in twelve hours, if I cared to get up.
The last people filtered out around three, leaving me, Luke and Ollie, who are the hosts and proprietors of the Best Apartment On or Off Campus, and their friend and guest Ian, a college dropout cum drunkard cum handyman, feminist, and general badass, whom they are trying to convince to move into their kitchen closet. I was too tired to leave and the world was getting a little tight and fuzzy. I knew that if I went home I’d end up sitting in my bathroom in a fetal position with my eyes on my knees, gasping for air. Plus it had been raining. We went to bed around four — or rather, after a long session of Luke singing and playing guitar, Ian telling Luke how to sing better, and me corroborating Ian in the vaguest, mouth-open-head-back-est way possible, Ollie had fallen asleep on two chairs, Ian decided to sleep sitting up on the couch, and I offered to leave. Luke told me I could crash in his bed. I did not say “Oh thank God,” but rather thought it, and collapsed gratefully on top of his comforter. He made me get up and undress, and then tucked me in, which he likes to do for whatever reason. Probably because I’m useless and need someone to do things like put me to bed and make sure I eat and refill my prescriptions and stuff. Ahem.
A great deal of cuddling and some oh-shit-you’re-menstruating not-sex later, I blinked and it was 1:00 on Sunday afternoon. I was supposed to go home and study for my calculus midterm, learn C, and program this Facebook thingy. Instead, I spent 3 hours watching Jack of All Trades, which should not have been cancelled, with Luke, Ollie, and Ian. They had beer and Ramen for breakfast. I had eggs and bacon and orange juice. By 3:00 or so the air around my head was taking a deep breath every time I tensed my neck muscles. I was in trouble. Walking in a straight line was becoming a problem. I took to leaning on things and not moving much. Ollie and Luke threw us all out around 4:30 because they had to go to Luke’s parents’ place for dinner. Ian went home. I bought a 3 oz. espresso, which turned into a triple espresso, which I turned back into a single because a triple espresso was way too much for me just then, and a muffin, and went home. I no longer have any sensation of time passing. I just spent two hours in the shower, bought an mp3 album (“November Birthday” by Lightning Love) on Amazon, pirated some X-Ray Spex, and am seriously considering going to bed instead of doing any work at all. Whenever I blink, the universe flexes its muscles. The back of my head hurts. My eyes are scummy and I think I may freak out again if I try to program — assuming I’m capable of reading more than half a page in the first place. I’m supposed to take a friend shopping tomorrow afternoon; I have to refill that prescription and do an unreasonable amount of calculus before the midterm; I still only know the first 15 pages of C.
And that’s why you should always refill your prescriptions on time, kids.
