The last “incident” was that night with the double dream,
the one of the hot tub, the phone call, and me talking to my mother about how I
thought I was sick.
She didn't believe me at first, thinking it was something
that happens to everyone, every once and while, but I after I showed her the
phone log, and had her talk to my friend, she was sure I was sick too. We went to a therapist, who I have been
seeing now for seven years. During that time, I was able to graduate high school,
get accepted into UW, and maintain a good job with a decent survivable salary as
an inventory clerk at Boeing.
Life was ok, I would say.
Mediation--
I moved out of my parents place, got my own apartment in
Mukilteo, and was making enough cash for weekly visits to my therapist.
About my therapist:
At first, her reaction was much like that of my mother. I
was grasping for attention, dreaming up fantasies where I was the hero in all
the situations or at least the main character. She defined it as a way of
filling a missing piece in my life of feeling wanted and loved.
After I insisted that I was neither abused nor neglected as
a child, she deemed it as denial. Oddly enough, after the first visit where
such dialogue occurred, the dreamlike realities stopped. I began to believe that
I was really acting out and began to dive into every possible reason why me, a
simple, normal kid would act the way I did. Was I suppressing some inner
passion to do great things because of a lack of confidence? I wasn’t sure and
then I began to doubt myself and my potential.
That was when the depression set in and Prozac came to my
rescue.
Medication—
There is quite the rap sheet of side effects when for this
drug, but the two that seemed to get me, and I use the word seem in all its grandeur,
were anxiety and restlessness.
Day one on Prozac: While taking a spring evening walk, I
crossed the street to get back to my apartment and was almost hit by a taxi. I
took that as just bad luck.
Day two on Prozac: While going for an evening jog, a school
bus jumps a curb and almost runs me over. I jumped into the bushes and was
unharmed. I called it in and heard on the news that the bus driver had fallen
asleep at the wheel.
Day three on Prozac: There is a shooting a couple blocks
away from my apartment. The news stated that the attempted murder went south
when the assailant realized that “he was at the wrong house”.
Day four on Prozac: There is a knock at my door. I go to
answer but something held me back. I wasn't expecting any visitors. The person
leaves.
Day five: Out for an evening run again and a landscaping
truck almost backs into me. The owner comes out screaming Italian and pulls a
gun on me. I sprint away and call the police. The news states that the Italian
man was under the influence of illegal substances at the time and was
processed.
Day six: The night terror started and I am overcome with a
fear that follows me into the day.
Day seven: I talk to my therapist as I think someone is
trying to kill me.
“I think someone is trying to kill me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“All the events that have happened this week! Maybe it isn’t
someone, but I feel that the universe is trying to kill me. I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we should take you off the Prozac for a little while.
Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself lately?”
“I am trying to stay alive for heaven’s sake! Someone is
trying to kill me! Do you even listen to what I say?”
“Agitation, anxiousness, and delirium…hmm.”
“Hello! I am right here! And I am not crazy!”
“I never said you were. Are you stressed at work?”
“What does work have to do with someone trying to kill me?”
“Stress that carries over from work and follows you home can
have a serious effect on the mental health of an individual. Tell me, when was
the last time you took a vacation?”
“Before I graduated high school I suppose… what does that
have to do with anything?”
“I think with all that is going on in your life and what has
happened that you are forgetting how to live life and trying to survive. I
think that the mental portrayal of that inward struggle is what makes you think
that someone is trying to kill you. I am prescribing you go on a vacation.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you want to, somewhere safe, somewhere fun,
tropical, isolated, mountainous, where ever you want to go.”
Meditation--
I took her advice and when to the Bahamas. Toes in the sand,
drinks in my hand, shades on, tropical breeze and waves caressing the shore,
yeah that is a vacation.
I tool around the mainland, taking in the culture: the food,
sounds, smells, colors, all of it.
A fruit stand at my left erupts in the spray of bullets.
They trace across the wall. I duck just in time for them to stop. I take off
running, but another stream of bullets follows. Everyone else ducks behind
their shops and stores. Dust and sounds of ricocheting bullets surround me. I tuck into an alley just as police officers
take the scene and return fire at the assailant I never saw.
When I get back, I tell this story to my therapist.
“Why would someone want to kill you?” she says in the same
tone she gave me when I first met her, that same, you are reaching for attention tone that made me despise her so.
“Great question doc, I was hoping you could tell me.”
I wake up alert, heart racing, sweaty and cold.
I check my heart rate. It has been thirty seconds since I
had an incident.
I walk to the kitchen of my apartment, check my phone.
Pictures from the Bahamas, prescription alerts from Walgreens, and a reminder
note to take my pills in the morning. There is gap of time between when I was
at the doctor, which my phone says was at 6 p.m. that evening and now, which is
3 a.m.
I receive a text from a 425 number. Local.
“There is someone trying to kill you. I have been keeping
them at bay and trying to keep you safe. Meet me on the Kingston Ferry at 8:15
tomorrow morning. I will explain everything. I know about your dreams. We met
in Seattle seven years ago. Do you remember?”
I slam the phone down and fall to the floor.
I am not crazy.
My therapist’s voice comes into my head.
“And I never said you were.”
