This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
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I was seventeen the night of my first breakdown, sick with the opiates they had forced down my synaptic clefts. The lithium that flowed from my physician’s white-lidded pill bottles was water poured into a broken glass.
By then I knew that the doctors’ offices each have an inimitable smell: an airborne concoction of disinfectant, pills, powders, and tissue paper.
And after awhile you notice that there are clocks sitting quietly in their place, keeping time like locusts waiting in the underground.
Then there are clocks that ring out crisp and clear on muggy August nights, or loud and paralytic in the office of a wealthy doctor. I’d known both types of timepieces, the click-click of the second hand marking my future in a language of red and blue capsules. I’d never known a doctor to notice the distinction between one clock and the next, but once I’d seen a little timepiece smashed by the girl before me, her hands wringing the neck of a round oval, pieces of the second hand descending in the office with the slivers of sticky glass.
The questions begin the same way – height, weight, birthday. I’d say Yes, the lawyers came for me. I was at school. I’m on medical leave now. It became a refrain I’d sing for unwilling audiences. I’d been cracked wide open, a screaming pregnant girl who’d finally burst.
And the doctors will tell you to follow the instructions on the bottle no matter what. Even if the pills begin to gnaw a hole in squishy fabric of your stomach, they will tell you to do as told. After taking the seven bottles of pills as they’d said to, the place between my heart and my hips caught fire: before my breakdown I lay awake five nights on end, thinking I’d let the devil inside. That was when the electric light inside of me misfired, a bottle rocket caught in the crevices of my spine.
And on the way to the doctor that night, I remembered when I was a middle-school kid and my mother brought me small things to remember her by as she recovered from the years of drinking SKYY and bottled seltzer. There was a tiny plastic duck on my dresser and a little toad on my bookcase. I saved books and jingly trinkets from the mornings she woke me up and left. I saved the glass tumbler that she drank her bubbly mix from, knowing I’d someday find myself as hollow as the bones of a bird.