Sex. Drugs. House.

It’s 8:30am.

I take a Valium.


I take another Valium.


I’m looking through a window staring into a parking lot.

What a view.

More importantly. Why is there a floor to ceiling window facing a parking lot? I’d rather stare at one of those motivational posters that says, “Keep Calm, Don’t die”.

A nurse enters the room and adjusts my chair. I am surprised she works here because she seems smart. She has 2 diamond earrings and red lipstick on. She doesn’t seem like someone who would wear red lipstick at 10am because her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, but then I catch her glancing to see what designer my bag is and you and I both know who those types of women are. She stares at my necklace as she sets up the room for the doctor.

She still hasn’t spoken a word to me. Which makes me thrilled.

She must have some Persian in her. But she could also be Mexican. She is wearing navy blue scrubs and those weird clog shoes that some people in doctor’s offices wear. They kind of look like crocs but they are not crocs. My dad wears these same shoes when he cleans up our dog’s shit.

I stop focusing on the nurse because I can’t stop smiling and I’m afraid that she will ask me a question. I feel warm inside. This is an unfamiliar feeling.

The last time I took valium I was in Acapulco. I didn’t feel warm. I felt dirty. Not physically, just mentally, dirty. I was on one of those spring break trips where you think going to a Spanish speaking country and getting fucked up for 7 days is the time of your life. Spring break feels dirty because you know it’s a lie. You lie about your age, your name, what alcohol level you can tolerate.

On this seven day journey of “I don’t give a shit” everyone thought crushing up valium and putting it in lukewarm beer was the answer to freedom. Valium juice we called it. And we drank it all day, everyday just because we could. And at night we would see the devil. Because every night in Acapulco the devil would come out. The devil was a random local who dipped his chiseled body in silver paint and dressed in an aztec costume. He would stand on the stage inside the club with his walking stick and repeat 3 sentences to the crowd.

“I can give you Sex. I can give you drugs. I can give you House.”

And then the DJ would drop the beat and all of these rich kids from every 2nd tier east coast College would just lose it. I mean they would totally fucking lose their minds every time the Devil spoke.

“I can give you sex. I can give you drugs. I can give you house.”

I’m sitting here in this doctor’s office feeling all warm and thinking about the devil. I feel content. I mean if you want me to be totally honest with you, I haven’t felt this great in months. I think these have been the best 10 minutes of my life. I feel emotionally satisfied like I’m a 30 year old home owner with a husband and a fulfilling career. The valium is keeping me centered. The valium is keeping me warm. The valium is giving me false comfort.

“Have you seen any good movies lately?” the nurse asks me.

I don’t really answer her because I pretend to be too fucked up.

I think about how much I hate those annoying questions that aren’t even interesting enough to remember let alone answer. It was one of those questions people ask you just because they feel uncomfortable with the silence. Which really gets to me because I’m the one that should be uncomfortable, not her. She works here. Shouldn’t I be the one that gets to direct the emotional level in this office?

I try and lose focus from the present and get back in my head. Mind blocking this nurse with my high, I close my eyes and think about my visit here yesterday. Instead of lying down in a chair, I was filling out one of those forms. I hate those forms. They ask you so many goddamn questions about your health. They really present you with everything that could potentially be wrong with you and you have to go through marking each box or not marking each box, all the while praying that you don’t have or will not contract any of these medical issues. High Cholesterol, no. Cancer. no. Are you allergic to penicillin? No. And then you have to check the box for the shit that’s actually wrong with you. Eczema. Yes. Thyroid Issues. Yes. Do you suffer from Depression or Anxiety? Yes. (I’m trying this new thing where I don’t lie. So I had to check yes).

After I am done filling out the forms I get taken to a small room for x-rays. I bite down on a piece of black plastic as the x-ray machine circles my body. It feels like a procedure that would take place before you entered a spaceship. The nurse takes me to a smaller room and immediately this 6 foot tall guy with grayish brown hair walks in. I just want to escape my personal Alcatraz and of course escape this office but instead I have to sit here and be subjected to this doctor who looks like Orange County’s answer to country music stardom. I mean this guy could really be the Tim McGraw of Southern California.

He begins to review my medical forms and immediately asks me about my depression.

“How long have you been suffering for?” He asks.

He tells me all about his personal struggle with anxiety which makes me bored.

I wish I didn’t have to look him in the eyes.

Then he gives me a prescription for some valium and I leave.

I don’t know why I brought up what happened yesterday. But I just thought it was interesting how this doctor thought we had something in common just because we are both, at times, depressed.

Anyways, today I’m back in this office on a valium enhanced ride and ever since nurse Betty discovered I was carrying a Balenciaga she’s been trying to small talk the shit out of me. Although now Tim McGraw is in the room playing with his tools and I’m not even sure the valium is working.

I know that’s a lie. OF COURSE the valium is working. But I feel more comfortable with uncertainty.

Tim McGraw makes me feel anxious because he’s trying too hard to “get me”. I don’t like it and I’m not in the mood to be understood. I just want this to end. I can’t stop focusing on the plastic gloves and the tools.

I am never going to wake up. I am going to die.

Fuck, why doesn’t this valium work. I want to ask for more. I want more. But I don’t want to talk to Tim McGraw.

He has hard time finding my veins. So he sticks the needle in my hand.

I begin to feel cold again so I put on my headphones and think of the devil.

“I can give you Sex. I can give you drugs. I can give you House.”

And then the beat drops and the anesthesia enters my body.