the dangers of radiation
Today marks the anniversary, and with the anniversary comes a higher expense. As the days between visits vanish without any signification or cause to count the numbers on a calendar, the last person I arrived as is lost and the situation forgotten.
These last twenty months have been a supernova explosion of raging energy and shattered fragments and head-on collisions of the fullest force. The doctor takes measurements of my gravitational collapse, as my core churns into a black hole. After six months, the therapy didn’t take, and I departed from the weekly sessions after I was turned into a zoo exhibit; I was sick of being sick and sick of pretending my life through that imitated environment. After eight months, my mind still refuses to slip into unconsciousness and drift into sleep without copious amounts of alcohol, and here is a toast to my beginning as a lifetime alcoholic. After thirteen months of nightly prescribed sedation, I am still filled with that un-measureable and undefined dark matter— just like my mental dis-health you can’t see it and you can’t touch it, but surely as I exist, it does too.
The receptionist remains unrestrained and presumptuous about the diagnosis of each person in the waiting room. We waited, all of us, anxiously. When was my last visit? Three months? Four? My arrival is greeted with the audacity of “Virginia! I got you, girl.” Which took her a moment before looking at my file and realizing I was named after the goddess of victory— not the queen of virginity.
The waiting room isn’t sterile. Just plain. It’s the people that decorate the room that are exploding with more complexities than can ever be diagnosed in a patient folder. You can feel their energies like a massive star spitting out radiation and taunting the darkness with solar flares.
Blood pressures and pulses and scales: the only hard-copy measurements that can actually be proven. The rest is all conjecture. The doctor office is a dreary place, littered with lonely picture frames and stacked with all sorts of literature relating to my disconnected mind. Each statement that I make is taken, observed, judged, analyzed. New York? Your see-saw must be teetering towards mania again. New York? Not realistic. You must be delusional again. For a person with disorders and anxieties about be judged and ashamed, psychiatry is the ultimate irony. Even still, I continue to visit. Rather it’s more of a necessity than a choice, but everyone likes to believe that they, at the very least, have control over their own mind.
Yet, here I am. Fifty-two weeks after the first time I visited: I was screaming in the parking lot because of insurance costs and knowing that I was about to pay two-weeks-worth just to have a stranger tell me the diagnosis I already knew.
No one takes the opinion of a crazy person seriously. In the past year, through the immobile days and scratched keys and skyscraper nights, I found comfort in an entity, an idea, a expanse of emptiness that will never give a shit about me. People say the Universe must care, but the Universe is our god and our god is indifferent. The Universe doesn’t care if I live or die or if it rains next Tuesday or if Earth is decimated by meteors. Still here we all are, medicating and judging and aching for happiness. But just as I am an exploding supernova, my gravity and radiation and energy, all expelling from a single point, my life will carry on.
Despite the diagnoses and medications and therapies, this exploding supernova can’t be taken away from me.