I look over the most common side effects of Effexor, the anti-depressant I’ve been taking for the past week.

    I read the list.  

    I check off the easy ones.  Dry mouth.  Changes in appetite.  Tremors.  Decreased sex drive.

    Yes, yes.  I have these.  Let’s continue.

    Then I get to strange dreams.  And I think over the past week.  The dream with that giant mutating spider in my backyard.  The dream on the support beams of that cabin, hiding out from flesh-eating evil elves.  The dream of sexually engaging with that two-headed woman.  

    I think of the auditory hallucinations that have stirred me from sleep almost every night recently.  The conversations I swear I’m having until I spring forward.  Find myself next to a sleeping body.  In a dark room.  No one to converse with.

    I think of the moments during the day when someone says something.  Let’s get some coffee.  Or, I could use a nap.  Or maybe, where is that kid’s parents?  And I have to stop.  I have to cease motion and stand there and scan my memory.  Scan my hold on reality.  Scan why this all seems so familiar.

    And I think of whether I’m progressing.  Whether the steps I’ve taken have moved me forward.  Have increased distance from where I deemed I needed to leave.  From where misery was consuming my life.  

    Have I changed any?

    Am I capable of such a thing?

    Is it possible for me to be happy?  Actually exist, as one, with happiness?  In happiness?  As happiness?

    And of course there’s that fun section - contact your doctor immediately if you experience any of the following.  And yeah, I experience them.  Who doesn’t?

    Mood or behavior changes - check.
    Anxiety - check
    Trouble sleeping - check
    Impulsivity - check
    Agitation - check
    Restlessness - check
    Hyperactivity (mentally or physically) - check
    More depressed - check

    Right.  Looks like I should make that phone call.

What to write?

The Depression gets me. I fight it. I battle it over the weekend. As it lurks behind me I find ways to evade it. To prolong my decency. Prolong a sense of normalcy.

But it takes hold. It immobilizes me. And eighty percent of victory is immobilizing one's opponent.

I believe I read that somewhere.

Regardless, it cripples me and digs in. Begins devouring whatever positivity I was cultivating. Tears through the layers of optimism and vigor I had been generating. Ravages the remnants of hope within me.

So I do what I've been trained to do. I do what I know best. What I've perfected. What has seemed to get me through every other time.

I head to the liquor store. I drive there mechanically. Robotically. Lifelessly.

I walk in with programmed steps and tersely interact with the cashier.

I leave with a pack of cigarettes and a pint of Jim Beam and take no time to consume the two.

It's only after a few cigarettes lay in the ashtray and the whiskey bottle sits half empty that I come to. That I become me again. That I get to feel once again.

And I feel wretched. I feel so wretched.

She asks me a question. It's between three and four in the morning, if I remember correctly.

It's after I return from the bathroom. After I stand there in front of the mirror. Peering into my blue eyes for some sort of self worth. Some sort of significance.

My pupils are dilated from all the anti-depressants flowing through my body.

I turn my head down. Relieve myself then leave.

She's smoking a cigarette when I crawl back on the mattress. The room is freezing but we stay atop the blankets.

As I take the cigarette from Her and place it in my mouth, She asks the question.

Are you okay? She asks.

And I've heard these words before. I've heard them throughout my entire life. Daily from my Mother growing up. From concerned loved ones throughout the years. From colleagues. Classmates. Strangers.

But it's this single time that stops me. That makes me pause. The bass in Her groggy voice. The regard in Her tired eyes. The patience of Her folded hands.

With smoke in my lungs, I pause.

And I don't remember the answer I give. All I remember is laying awake for the next several hours, staring at the ceiling from the floor.

    As I write on my iphone, She sits beside me on the mattress reading quotes from Honest Tea labels.

    She has a bag before her full of them and takes them out one by one.  Peels them apart.  Peels them open.  The adhesive makes that sticky parting sound.

    I lay there and type words on the digital notepad.  Writing words about Her.

    She begins reading the quotes.  One after the other.  Places them in a pile to Her right.

    I don’t listen to anything She says.  I hear Her voice.  It’s balanced and calm.  Low and contemplative.  Soothing and safe.

    I hear Her stumble over the pronunciation of a few of the names.  I hear Her try to sound out each syllable.  Pensively.  Cautiously.

    I pause and rest my head on the pillow.  Wonder if She’s reading these things to me or to Herself.  Wonder if She realizes I’m ignoring Her.

    What is the motivation here?

    What’s something you take with you everywhere you go? She asks.

    I shrug my shoulders.  Stare at Her.

    Give me your phone, She says.

    And I hand it over.  Without hesitation, I hand it over.

    She grabs a pair of scissors, some tape, and after a few minutes She returns my phone.

    On the back it reads: The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall - Marianne Williams

    I read it and smile.  Spread myself about the mattress.  Exhale one long, full breath.

    A few hours later, after I’ve left Her house and have ventured out into the heat, I remove my phone from my pocket.

    The words are gone.  

     I dig my hand back in and pull out curled, wet versions of what once was.

    Then I fall.

She kisses me so sweetly in the night.

I think this happens. I feel like this happens.

In between one of the chronic dreams I have of my Father trying to kill me and a dream I have of capture-the-flag with wild animals.

She kisses me.

Once with her lips over top my upper lip. Once with her lips over top my bottom lip.

She kisses me.

And it's all so hazy. It's all sprinkled in mist and fog. It all sneaks in and rests, then escapes. Rushes out. Leaves.

But I'm left with this sensation. This fulfillment in the absence of Her. This sustaining warmth that lasts and lasts and lasts.

And I may have created all these things. I may have conjured them up with my imagination. They may all be me.

And I'm not sure it matters. I'm not sure I care.

I have the impression within me.

I have it.

And I like it.

    So, it doesn’t all have to be bad.  The days don’t have to be dripping with sorrow.  With melancholy.  They can turn out alright.

    So I let it be so.

    I move through the day.  I glide on the minutes that pass.  I let them float under me.  I let them go.

    And it’s easy enough.  Sure, there are moments I stagger.  There are moments I stop.  Pause.  Bend down and pry through the seconds.  Pick apart each passing fragment of my existence and analyze whether it means something or not.  Whether it has value.  Whether it’s worth it.

    That happens.  I can’t say it doesn’t happen.  It does.  It most certainly does.

    But I let that go too.  I start dropping everything.  I start dropping and begin floating.  Up and up, I float.

    And sure, the ground is still there.  Sure, with each foot I rise I bear the weight of the fall.  

But who cares?  What is it they say about ships?  About where they’re safe?  About why they’re built?

Well, yeah.  That’s true too.

I come home today feeling good.  I come home from Takoma Park covered in sweat and hope.

There’s a package between the storm door and the front door.  A thin cardboard box.  And it’s for me.

It has my name on it.

So I tear it open inside as a cat settles down to watch.  Dr Suess’ Oh, the Places You’ll Go falls out along with a letter

Life is a balancing act, it says.

And I absorb the words.  The meaning.  I hold them.  I hold it.  I balance it all.

Then I read the book.  Right there on the floor.  

I read the book,

And things are okay. 

    Right, so, words on the page.  Here they are.

    And not much has happened.  Or maybe too much has.  Always so unsure of what’s going on.  Always thinking far too much.  Always bouncing around in my cluttered thoughts.

    I put on my shoes to leave the house yesterday.

    Where are you going? a loved one asks.

    To Her, I say.

    Oh yeah?  How’s that going? she asks.

    And I just stand there.  I look out the storm door.  At the dead potted plants lining our walkway.

    And I say nothing.  It’s still going.  It’s still there.  Life is still moving on.  It still goes and goes, even at the times I wish it’d stop.

    Even at the times I buy a half pint of Jim Beam and a pack of American Spirits and drive around Columbia listening to Elliott Smith.  Radiohead.  Anything that will make my heart writhe.

    Even at the times I return home and my housemates block the exit to my room when I attempt to leave.  Even as I push and squirm past them, all to use the bathroom in the hallway alone.  All to just be alone.

    Even at the times I wake in the night, on the floor, and erupt with terror at how I’ll have to wade through another day.  That the sun will indeed rise and I will have to greet it.

    That there is something inside me that relentlessly pitters and patters and won’t give out.  Will never give out.  Will keep me going without my consent.

    Even at all those times.

    Right.  So.  I guess that puts me here.  Here writing again.  Here doing it again.  I guess, that says enough for now.