In Good Health

This morning Clark comes in to wake me up before my alarm goes off. I have been prepared to wake up — I always set my alarm — and this morning I even built in snooze time. I did not sleep at all night before last because I did not take my sleeping pill, its prescription had run out and the doctor was late in calling it in. And so my lids fall fast when Clark leaves the room.
At 9:20am the alarm sounds, and again at 9:29. At 9:38am I am jolted awake by the sound of church bells ringing, the kind you hear at the end of a Disney movie when Ariel marries Prince Eric. They scare the shit out of me every time. Sharky is a big asshole, he gets to sleep in, but I have to get up and get things going. I put on my black jeans for the 18th time. There are many stains on them which I hide by wetting them with water, and now they’re stretched out so much they look like they line the sides of Keith Richard’s face, which is another conversation entirely so get your mind out of the gutter. Sara cares very much about cleanliness and so do I which is why I picked my jeans up off my floor. It is time for them to have a wash. I hope I remember that when I take them off.
Sharky continues to lie on my bed like I’m not up and about, making things happen. I look in the mirror and decide that today, like everyday, is a nice day to pull my hair back in a low bun because my 12th grade Biology teacher told me it made me look like Evita. There is a story here about an audition I went on for a nudie film about Eva Peron in which I did not have to actually take my clothes off, but still sat shaking behind the filing cabinets waiting to audition and downing a bottle of white Lillet. Ask me about it sometime.
9:45am rolls around and I get yelled at by Clark. I am still deciding on whether to wear my orange and white Adidas or my Dansko’s to work. Both pair hurt the balls of my feet after standing for 8 hours, but I bought a pair of “Steppies” for my Dansko’s so I slide those on. Down the stairs I go, with Sharky in hot pursuit. It is 9:50am. I will be late for work, but we stop and get McDonald’s coffee anyway. It’s Clark’s fault.
I can’t drive right now, by the way.
Work is great, nobody comes in, so I stand around with a girl named Alice and shoot the shit. Alice mostly talks about her kids, which is fascinating and amazing, but I find that every time I try to throw in an, “Oh yeah, I get that, I…,” to relate, her Whack a Mole mallet comes out and I retreat. And then I do it. I find my way in and I’ve been waiting so long I’m sweating a little and I feel like I might throw up so I just do it. I relate to her kids’ dark days in a big way and I start to lean in with the heavy share. I tell her about my bipolar. I go into psychosis, hospital visits, mania, depression, moving out of my house, living with my parents, the seizure, the 11 medications I’m taking that my mom almost accidentally OD’d on a few weeks ago, everything. And then I say something like, “But yeah, I don’t say that because I’m down on it, I say it because, you know, we’re getting through it!!! I do believe your daughter’s zits will totally go away with Jessica Simpson’s medicine, but if they don’t, she is strong. She has you! We will get through this!” And then I barf in someone’s shoe. I was not invited to this party, I do not believe.
Back at the homeplace, Sharky and I go for a stroll, tennis ball in one pocket, cell phone in another. He fetches, we walk past the house that hangs lights in the branches of the trees that hang over the street, and although it is not dark and they are not on, the hot heavy air and the sound of cicadas make it feel like Christmas.
Or something like that.
For the love of Jesus. Sara was at the sound for sunset and now she’s here. Her first post on Instagram. I am proud of her. But I am not prepared for what she says as she walks through the door. “K, do you know Scott Hinson, who was at Hunt (High School) a few years before you?” I say no, and she proceeds to tell me that Scott is in the hospital, is suffering from a rare blood disorder, and if he lives he will most likely be deaf and blind. Digest that for a minute. Will he still be thinking, feeling? There are other questions, I know, but for now I am stuck on how vital those sensory organs are to me, to connecting with other people, with the world.
I take my medicine. It is time for bed.
