Ahhhhhh-Haaaaaah.
You blame yourself for freezing. When you replay the scene in your head, you see a different you. One who fought back. In your head, you screamed. You stabbed the mugger with your fingered keys. You swung your backpack into his testicles. You palmed him full-force right under his nose. You are haunted by the different you.
You've kept up appearances. You went back to work, though sometimes, when no one was looking, you closed the door to your office and crawled under your desk. You do what you must, then rush home. Lock yourself in your tower--the little bedroom turret in your Hancock Park Moorish. You're Rapunzel in self-storage.
A month after it happened, you went to a doctor. You told him, "I'm ripping." You described your gray beast--how it grabs you when you're driving, when you talk to strangers, in your dreams. He wrote you a prescription.
You tried the pills, but you felt slow and thick, trapped beneath your own surface.
"We can play with the dosage," the doctor said at your next appointment. "Or we can fool around with something less sedating."
"What are the side effects?"
"Oh. Suicidal thinking. Hypomania. Agitation. Insomnia. Anxiety. Panic."
So you found another doctor.
"Does your beast have a name?" he said.
"Huh?" you said.
"Because it's going to live in you for the rest of your life. You made it. Your chemicals. Your brain. Your blood."
He said we don't want to kill it. Just turn it into a house pet, one that curls up and sleeps in the crook of your knees. He gave you homework. Sent you out to rouse the beast. You practice-drive the freeways. Practice-talk to strangers. Practice-walk alone in the dark. He said, "That's how you tame it. Repeated shocks."
So you've learned how to live with no dull moments. Every moment is sharp.
Ahhhhhhhhhh. Haaaaaaah. You do the trick the new doctor taught you. Take time and reduce it to manageable units. Birth to last breath. Adolescence to middle age. Last year to next year. Yesterday to tomorrow. Now until midnight. There's no detail of this evening you haven't controlled. You picked the restaurant, The Ivy, your favorite. You know the menu backward and forward. You know the smells of the sourdough rolls, the starch of the waiters' oxford shirts. You reserved the right table, in the back, low-lit, near the ladies' room. You've dry-runned the scenarios. With the drive to and from the restaurant, crab cakes, Chinese chicken salad, key lime pie, the inquisition and perhaps a short walk, you'll be home in four hours. Plan B, if you're struggling, turn on your helium, float weightless answers, torpedo dessert, you're home in three. You feel better already. Now until midnight. This you can handle. You come down from the ceiling. Slip back in the bottle.
