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The following mental day, I didn’t open the door to check the weather. I didn’t get the mail. I didn’t even answer the door when the little Girl Scout rang the doorbell. I peeked out the peephole and watched until she left with her mother. I could have used some thin mints but didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Not one sole. I wasn’t lamenting or feeling super depressed. I just wanted to be alone, and it felt good.
I spent the afternoon watching music videos on You Tube. I memorized Michael’s dance routine from Thriller. I was pretty good at it by 3 p.m., so I memorized the Vincent Price voice-over. Vincent’s lyrics filled me with a good kind of rage, so I yelled them while I pranced about like a Zombie:
“Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize your neighborhood
And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse’s shell”
I wasn’t sure what it meant, and I didn’t care.
Evening was wine time, so I filled a big red wine glass to the brim. Since my mother was the only person who had my new number, I had no reason to check my cell phone incessantly. I felt free, even though I wasn’t leaving my house. I was inside my safe cocoon where no one could berate me or hurt me or convince me the world was full of ugly people. I was a beautiful zombie for one day of my life and life was good.
My new phone rang, and I jumped. I knew it wasn’t my mother. I usually called her. She didn’t call me. It was just our way. I was the busy one, so she understood that I’d call her when I was free. I held it in my hands staring at the strange number for a couple of rings. Curiosity got the best of me, so I answered it.
“Hello?”
“Well, hello, and how are you today?”
“And who are you?”
“No, I said, how are you?”
“And I said, who are you?” I giggled a little from having had a couple of glasses of merlot. I was ready for this sales call. They had no idea what they were in for.
“I’m Roger. It’s fine to meet you. I’m wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time to ask you a few important questions.”
“Oh Roger, Roger, I have all the time in the world. First, though, I was just finishing up a little something and am hoping for a little feedback. Could I trouble you?”
There was a noticeable pause. We were off script.
“Uh. Sure.”
I then started chanting Thriller to Roger over the phone. I couldn’t stop myself. Although I’d spent hours learning the dance routine, I hadn’t fully focused on the lyrics, so when I came to sections I didn’t know, I just made up portions. I made it a point not to laugh. I wanted to be serious about this whole thing. I had Roger’s full and undivided attention and I was going to make the most of it. He actually sat through quite a bit of it. When I was done with that, I changed my tactic.
“Roger, are you still there?” I asked.
“Yes, I am still here. Are you ready for me to ask a few questions? I would really appreciate it,” he said. I was shocked at how calm he was.
“Hmmm. I don’t know, Roger. You haven’t heard all of my Vincent Price voice-over yet. I think there’s a second verse and need to Google it.”
“Well, uh, first let me ask you. Are you interested in tropical beaches and warm, crystal clear oceans?”
“Are you kidding me Roger, who wouldn’t be interested in that?” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.
He then began a long soliloquy about the benefits of time shares and invited me to spend three days at no charge in the mesmerizing Cancun, Mexico.
“Wow, I said, free? Fuck, no, Roger.” Something snapped within me. Anger swelled up and out of me and Roger received my wrath with no holds barred, “Let me repeat, Roger, in case you didn’t hear me. I don’t want a fucking stupid timeshare, and I feel sorry for stupid fucking you who has this stupid fucking job where you have to call strangers on their cell phones and try to sell stupid fucking hotel rooms in Mexico. How in the world did you get this stupid fucking job in the first place? Did you do prison time for cashing checks that weren’t yours or do a little cocaine in the truck stop bathroom and now you can’t get a real job? What’s your story, Roger? You seem like a nice guy. Do you know the Lord, Roger?”
Mentioning God, Jesus, or the Lord always scares strangers, even Christians. It scares them more than acting like a Zombie and singing Thriller. I say this with all certainty, because this isn’t the first time I’ve messed with a salesperson. This time was different though. I was usually quite jovial. This time I was angry. I knew I wasn’t angry with Roger, but he was the stranger who received something pent up within me.
“Fuck you, bitch,” he said right before he hung up. The good news was that I was certain he wouldn’t call back.
I had done all of that and then remembered I had a new phone with the ability to block calls. I didn’t need to go through all those antics just to get some strange guy not to call me any more. I had lost my mind momentarily.
I had no desire to chat with anyone after that episode, so turned off my phone and went to bed.
The following day started at midnight. I had forgotten to take some Benadryl, which I considered to be magic pink dream pills. I used to take Tylenol PM, but when I read the label, I realized the PM part was nothing more than diphenhydramine and diphenhydramine is nothing more than Benadryl. I was in no pain and thought it illogical to take the Tylenol part when I didn’t need it. The Benadryl part, though, I certainly did need. I couldn’t sleep without it, so at midnight, I opened my eyes and laid there looking at the ceiling fan.
Night is when I do most of my obsessive thinking. I think about people mainly. I think about Monica, Tim, Travis, my mother. I do not embrace this obsessive thinking and I often obsess over the obsessing. To get my mind off all my people, I have many tactics. I usually start by singing in my head 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. If I am still singing in my mind at 76 bottles, I then try counting sheep. I picture those adorable sheep from the Serta Mattress commercials with the numbers listed on their fluffy sides. My third tactic is to try to put myself in a trance by laying as still as possible and tell myself how relaxed I am from my tippy tippy toes to the top of my head. Then, if all else fails, I turn on the TV and watch infomercials. It’s imperative I don’t watch any show that has anything to do with murder, guns or that dreaded R word that I still cannot mention and am still in denial about. Any violence at night causes me to dream. Sometimes I dream the truth or reality or just flat-out terror-ridden dreams that stick with me for days.
After employing all tactics, I manage to drift off to sleep and wake up late. I worry a bit that my sleep schedule will be altered when I have to return to work and then realize I flat out worry too much and roll back over and sleep some more. When I wake up again, I do my Zombie walk to the kitchen. I skip taking a shower. I didn’t shower yesterday either. No one was around to see or smell me, so I didn’t see the point. I had read somewhere that beauty queens often don’t shower the day before the competition to ensure shiny skin and hair. I dubbed today beauty queen day as I made the coffee.
I had a goal today to accomplish one thing. I had not yet decided what that one thing was but smiled at the thought of success at reaching it. I hoped the smiling meant I was happy. After much contemplation, I decided my goal would be to read. It didn’t matter what I read, I would just read. That would keep me away from You Tube and Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. It noted how easy it could be to waste the days away when one was alone with only time as their friend and didn’t want to be one of those people.
Since I hadn’t showered and was still wearing my night clothes, I decided to download a book on my tablet rather than go through the effort of driving to the bookstore or the library. I was also a bit worried about being seen. What if a coworker had a day off? What would I say? Oh yes, I have a mysterious illness that I’ve told no one about and am curing it by shopping. You know what they always say.... buy a book; get happy. Downloading a book was my only option.
It didn’t take me long to find what looked to be an interesting read. I loved memoirs. This was called, “Crazy Love,” by Leslie Morgan Steiner. It captured my attention from the title. Any book about Crazy Love had to be good. I knew all about crazy love and was eager to compare notes. I hated spending $12.00 on an electronic book when it was probably sitting on the library shelf but decided to splurge. The book hooked me from the first page, and I spent all day in bed reading. I got up to go to the bathroom, of course. I can’t say to freshen up, though, because I certainly didn’t to that. I also made myself a tuna salad sandwich and ate it in bed while I read.
The book could have been also aptly titled, “Why I Stayed.” Ms. Steiner tells her story of falling crazy in love with an abusive jerk. She captured my attention because she is a Harvard graduate who had it all. She was smart and pretty and merely made the mistake of loving the wrong man. It validated my decisions with Travis. I may not have married Travis or spent years putting up with his abuse, but I did question my choices from the very first date. I can’t admit how many times I wondered why I didn’t just walk away. It is so easy to forgive others, but hard to forgive yourself. I could have made forgiving myself the goal for the day, but I had no intention of setting such high standards when I was only just beginning my mental break. Instead, I praised myself for reading, even though it was an easy goal. After all I’d been through, I thought doing something besides sleeping was a true accomplishment.
I had nearly finished the book when I realized it was starting to get dark. I knew I had to eat again and thought about ordering a pizza, but then I realized the driver could possibly be the son of a coworker and I surely didn’t want more gossip. The only thing he’d do, though, would be to validate the illness, because I looked so bad from the absence of grooming. I didn’t want anyone thinking about me or talking about me anyway. I decided, then, to just eat another tuna salad sandwich and be done with it. Some people live to eat, and some eat to live. I was the latter at that particular point in time.
After the stress of reading such a serious book, I decided the next day would be a no stress day. Everything I did would be to further that goal. I could then report to my therapist how successful I was at goal setting. After cereal and coffee, I opened the laptop that I kept on the man side of my bed. I cued up Netflix and laid in my bed and watched all seven episodes of Downton Abbey, Season Three.
Being organized, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich right after breakfast and kept it by my bed with a glass of water. Then, I would easily be able to reach my “no stress” goal by never leaving my bedroom. I was enjoying myself watching TV on a laptop in bed. I sometimes repeated the lines, mimicking the English accents. Things, though, took a turn for the worse when Sybil died. I was so very sad that such a sweet, smart woman would be taken from us, the viewers. I wasn’t expecting it. I knew from watching clips that Matthew would die in the last episode and I was prepared for that, but I wasn’t prepared for Sybil’s death. It upset me so much, I had to get out of bed and clear my mind.
Determined to reach my no stress goal, I went to my front porch and perched myself on my faux wicker rocker. It was late afternoon and the clear crisp October weather chilled me and warmed me at the same time. It felt good to breathe the fresh air of a new season. It just felt good to breathe. Sometimes a person just needs to clear their head, change the pace, and take a different direction.
Rocking peacefully on the porch, I realized that Sybil’s death was inevitable for the story line and that Tom, the former chauffer would play a prominent role in the family. As I came to grips with this sad, but real conclusion, Travis drove by in his gun metal gray Audi. He didn’t slow down, and he didn’t stop, but the car was unmistakable. I lived in the back of a neighborhood on the way to nowhere. He had no reason to be driving down my street. Quickly, I rose from my rocker and hustled back into the house. I still had two episodes left of season three and returned to 1917 without bothering to turn on my bedroom light.
The following day, I was ready to approach reality. I knew it was unfair to everyone not to at least check my email, especially since I had changed my phone number. As I pulled up my account, I could literally feel my heart stop beating and then give me a good pound. Why would I be nervous about email? It was just email. Everyone loves email; otherwise, it wouldn’t be so popular.
The first note I opened was from Tim. He wasn’t patronizing or begging for a phone number. He was such a dear friend:
“Hi there, Chloe. All is the same here. They’ve divvied up your work among us analysts, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. The secretary won’t speak to me again, and of course I don’t know why. I’m sure when you return, you can fill me in on what awful thing I’ve done this time or just console me. Check in if you want. No hurry. The only thing waiting for us will be ice cream at Mrs. Curl.”
I immediately sent him a text thanking him and giving him my new confidential phone number and received a smiley face in reply. He always knew when to talk and when to just acknowledge. I counted my many blessings and resumed perusing my unread emails, when I caught sight of an email from Shirley. Shirley doesn’t send personal emails. I knew I had to open this one immediately.
“Good morning Chloe. I hope you are doing well. I wanted to give you a heads up that you will be receiving important paperwork in the mail. Please ask your doctor to sign it and return it to Administration (not to me) as soon as possible. Thanks much. Shirley”
Good God, I hadn’t checked the mail in four days. Walking clear out to the post box seemed like hiking to Albuquerque to me. It wasn’t that I was depressed. I was not depressed at all. I merely didn’t feel like going outside. I just needed some space. I needed space away from men driving by my house, neighbors wondering why I was home alone for days on end, and time to retreat to get my energy back. This whole ordeal, including not exercising for days on end, had left me powerless to put one foot in front of the other.
I decided then and there that my next goal would be to go out and get the mail. Not only would walk all the way to the mailbox, I’d shower again and even put on shoes and socks to get the mail. I could walk out there barefooted but wasn’t sure when I’d shower again and preferred not to traipse around in my house with dirty feet. Yes, shoes and the mail would be my goal. That was two goals. My therapist would be so proud of me.
I spent the next morning watching mindless TV, thankful that I have a job that enabled me to avoid such dribble. I vowed that after my two-week retreat was complete that I’d never watch daytime TV again. Yet, for now, it was part of my therapy, I told myself. Watching the dung heap of society flail their dirty laundry on international television reminded me that even though I am currently on self-imposed house arrest, I am far better off than those poor souls. I realize they are probably faking their fights and affairs, but the mere fact they’d act so slovenly in front of God and creation amazed me. I wouldn’t even sit in the audience of one of those shows, let alone get up on stage. Yes, I was a step above the baby daddy and baby mama.
Just as Maury was about to reveal the baby daddy, I heard the mailman drive by my house. I first had to wait for the big reveal, and I didn’t have my clothes on yet, let alone my shoes. This was my excuse, and I was sticking to it. However, I’d set two goals and I was determined to meet them. As soon as Maury proclaimed that neither man sitting on stage was the baby daddy, I didn’t wait for the major eruption on stage sure to ensue. I stood up and walked to my bedroom to retrieve my shoes. My original intent was to put on some socks and tennis shoes and maybe even some clothes. Instead, I walked directly to that mailbox in my blue fluffy robe and vinyl flip flops.
Sure enough, the big envelope from the university was waiting for me. I pulled it out, sat down in the rocker on the front porch, and opened it. In it was a note from someone named Tammy. “Please have your doctor complete the enclosed and return it to me. My fax number is listed below. Thank you. Tammy.” Fax? Who uses fax anymore? How was I going to fax this from home? Then I realized if the doctor signs it, he could send it. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
The document was titled, “Family Medical Leave Act.” I perused through the 8-page document and on page one, I noted there was a section for “diagnosis.” Diagnosis? I wasn’t sick. I started to panic. I was taking sick time and I clearly wasn’t sick. I could get fired. I envisioned having to drive down to my mother’s and live with her. She and I got along fine from a distance but couldn’t handle more than three or four hours together in the same room. I had to fix this and fix it quickly. Surely the therapist would help me sort this out. My appointment with her was three days away and I couldn’t sit in this house and worry for three solid days. I couldn’t go back to work without a doctor’s note at this point and I wasn’t sick. This was all such a terrible mess.
I blamed Shirley. She made me leave. Surely when the office manager forces you to leave, you have some recourse. I sat there on my front porch at 3:00 on a Friday afternoon in my fuzzy robe and flip flops wondering what to do. I had no one to call. This was all my mess to sort out.
I went in the house and poured a glass of wine. I needed to calm down. Staying home for two weeks would not be an option. I was just sitting in here with my own thoughts, fighting my nightmares like Zorro. I needed to call that therapist’s office and bump up the appointment, so I found her card and immediately made the call. They answered on the first ring and I tried to sound like a girl who had showered and was wearing underwear. I put the wine down so they wouldn’t hear the sipping. Sometimes my mother heard me sipping and she always called me out on that. I needed to be cautious.
I introduced myself and calmly said I needed to change the appointment.
“Certainly, the next available appointment with Sheila is in two weeks,” the receptionist informed me with a monotone voice. Clearly, she didn’t like her job based her tone.
“Oh, no, I didn’t clearly state my intentions,” I replied with a shaky voice, “I have an appointment in three days. I need one sooner, like tomorrow. Is Sheila free tomorrow?”
It was evident I was not making sense. Surely, I could deduce that “next available appointment” meant two weeks. However, I’d been through this routine before. I knew they held back emergency appointments, and this was an emergency. I just had to communicate the urgency.
“The next available appointment is in two weeks,” she repeated. This was not the same friendly woman I’d spoken to last week. They needed to fire this girl.
“Look, this is an emergency. I need help now,” I said.
“What type of emergency?”
“I don’t feel safe. I need help.”
“Call the police.”
“NO, you don’t get it. I’m locked up in this house and seeing Sheila is the only way I can get out. Okay? Please. I need to see her. Look, you’ve humiliated me and surely you aren’t trained to humiliate your patients. Help me, please,” I said before I broke down crying.
“I can squeeze you in at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Would that do for you? We are only open from 9:00 to noon on Saturdays, so I have no other options for you.” Again, she didn’t even feign empathy. She was just doing her job.
“Yes, tomorrow would be fine. Thank you,” I said and then hung up, not waiting for her to respond.
This stress was exhausting me. I hadn’t reached my goal of no stress. I had no idea how to alleviate it, so I went and threw myself down on the bed and willed myself to sleep. Two hours later I woke up hungry and forced myself into the kitchen. I was woefully low on food. I promised myself I’d go to the grocery tomorrow after my appointment, but for tonight I would merely survive. The milk was expired, and the eggs were two months past their expiration date. I couldn’t even have breakfast for dinner. I opened the freezer and selected two fine choices: pizza rolls and tater tots. I pulled out the George Foreman grill and stuffed the tots and rolls upon it. Six minutes later, I was pleased to see that I had at least three food groups on my plate. My ingenuity made me chuckle and that made me glad. I could still laugh, which meant there was hope for me.