ON XANAX IN BUFFALO
Erika Walsh
Mom, you say, I'm home. Your mom says come here. Sweetie.
You're desperate for her to know how badly you appreciate her. All through college, whenever you were sick, or lonely, or heart-broken, you needed her. All you wanted was to go home and sleep in the Healing Room (the room with the guest bed and the tarot cards and the tapestry and the many bowls of smooth stones where she goes to have her migraines). All you wanted was to be recommended a mélange of YouTube meditation videos; to sleep stiff and vaguely wheezing in the air of her many essential oil diffusers.
*
Your chest hurts. It could be anything. You have to stop your chest from hurting. You consult with your mom's gynecologist (the only doctor she knows she can get a quick appointment with) and leave with a script. As needed, the gynecologist says. You give him a thumbs-up.
You have to walk daily with no destination through miles of snow and black ice in your Vans. You think of this as endurance training. Endurance training for what, you cannot say.
You have to consume an entire bottle of wine and a family-sized bag of Doritos each day. You purchase the first from the liquor store next to your home, and the second from the mini mart next to your home. You consume each slowly, in tandem, from afternoon to night.
You have to spend fourteen hours sleeping a day. A shadow palms your eyes and mouth and face closed. You groan, roll over, drool. Tomorrow I'll be more productive, you think to yourself. Your self scoffs.
*
You are newly graduated from college and you are on Xanax and you are in Buffalo. You left Ithaca in a hurry, after Cam pushed you outside of Lot 10. Fine, you said. I'll leave.
You removed yourself from your sublet, blocked your almost-roommates when they called, blocked your almost-landlord and the electric company and the almost-boss that hired you for your almost-job. You feel bad. You feel righteous. You feel committed to your shame.
You do not spend the summer in Ithaca teaching kids at an afterschool program. You do not take the bus thirty minutes each way to the school. You do not pay a single bill. You do not have to be a person.
You come to Buffalo.
*
This is the first time in a while you've felt classically depressed; the first time your depression has not had a person or otherwise concrete obsession to cling to; the first time it has not manifested alongside or masked by anger or romantic delusion. You have literally nothing at all going on, and you like it. If God came and asked you what you wanted, you would say More nothing, please. God would scold you for being so cheeky.
You feel like a celebrity that has to be hospitalized for "exhaustion." You feel like a celebrity that has to be hospitalized for exhaustion.
*
Flashes of Ithaca drown you in your sleep: that Greek island 3 hours away where you fucked and/or wanted to fuck a few too many of your friends and sometimes it was fun and sweet and sometimes the aftermath made you turn evil and sometimes the aftermath made them turn evil and sometimes you were like I forget what quest I'm supposed to be on and sometimes you were like I think I have to get home to my wife.
Your wife was a black hole at the center of your bed that lapped you up delectably while you sighed inside it.
*
You are puking red in the hall outside your five-year-old sister's room. You are on your knees, sobbing, trying and failing to scrape the stains of vodka cranberry out from the grooves between the wood paneling on the floor. You've grown too old for this drink, but you're out of ideas.
You don't remember if your mom found you like this, or if you somehow crawled on all fours to your bed undetected. If she did find you, you know she did not scold you. You know that she was gentle, so as not to wake the babies.
*
I am bored you cry into the phone, calling poison control for the seventeenth time. I'm never bored. Rarely bored. I think I'm really sick. There's something wrong. Please. [1]
*
You have to sit on the floor for five days straight crafting an intricate large-scale collage, only to have your cat chew at its corners because you cannot muster the strength to move it from the floor.
In the collage, men have antennas. You listen to your cat scratch them and bite them. The faces of the men you failed to convince to love you buzz around in your head. You cry and do not leave your bed.
*
On Xanax in Buffalo, you're gearing up to begin fixating on Ken, after fixating for nearly two years on his best friend Cam. You fucked him before you graduated, and are anticipating that he may want to fuck you again when you visit, until you receive a call on the Greyhound less than an hour out from Ithaca, informing you that he is now dating Mariah.
You fixate on men with three-letter names who you see as somehow kinder and sweeter than the rest. You ignore the fact that both of them seem to actually literally hate you. You ignore the fact that both of them slapped your face in bed without asking. You wonder if they spoke about this, before or after it happened. You wonder if they agreed quietly that you must have liked it.
The names do not insist upon themselves, you tell the poison control phone operator. That's how you know it's real. Plus Cam leant me his glasses so I could walk the mile from his dorm room to mine. We have nearly the same prescription. That's sweet, right?
The poison control phone operator says, Why didn't he just give you a ride.
What? you say, and sob, because this is what you do now, when you are not asleep: you sob. [2]
*
You want to do something nice for your mom on her birthday, nine days before your own. It's hard to do something for someone else when you can barely summon the energy to do anything at all for yourself. Still, you brainstorm. You sit and you drink and you burp and your eyes twitch, your attention shifting lazily from half-thought to half-thought.
You decide that a seance would be the most appropriate gift. A seance, because your mother has been taking classes on psychic mediumship at Lily Dale, and because when she was twelve years old her father died of a brain tumor, and because she loved her father, and always said that she wished you could meet him.
*
I think I'll throw her a seance, you tell the poison control operator.
The operator says I don't know if that's a good idea. [3]
*
You prepare for the seance. You light candles and groan. You get on all fours like an animal. You try to dig into the wood. You wear cotton gloves while you do this, to discourage any splinters. You don't want there to be any splintering. You want a complete, whole, massive spirit to appear glimmeringly in front of you, visible and rare. You want your mother to know how much you love her. You want to do good. You want to be good.
*
What's this? your mother asks. There is smoke and broken glass around you.
Your, you say, between pants, gift. Your gift. Look.
Something is glowing and rising from of the center of the circle of flames you've created. Something is humming and making Om sounds.
Cam? you exclaim. Your mom says what is going on. Somehow, you have conjured Cam, instead of her dead father. You have failed again to focus on what is important.
I'm so sorry, you say. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Cam stares at you, blankly, a copy of a copy of a spirit. He's not even dead. Ugh, you say, Just go away. You don't thank him. You forget that you are supposed to thank him.
*
You did what? says the poison control operator, chuckling. Seriously. You're crazy.
I'll hang this phone up right now, you say. Find a way to sympathize with me. [4]
*
You will not always be on Xanax in Buffalo. I mean, duh. Like two months in, you secured a job teaching creative writing with a nonprofit in Manhattan. Even knowing this, you proceeded to act as though you had no future. What am I doing with my life is an excellent thing to ruminate on when you want to indulge your self-pitying. [5]
*
You always think about this moment, when you were sixteen and high on too many shrooms and crying and snotting and very nearly vomiting, and your mother just sat there. She pulled you into her lap and stroked your wet hair. You're just like me, she said. [6]
Notes
[1]Operator: Should I actually be worried?
Me: What?
Operator: Like, I get that you're going through something, but I feel like with regards to your physical health, there's no reason for me to actually be worried. Like I feel like you're being dramatic.
Me: I'm on drugs.
Operator: Prescribed.
Me: Yeah, but I'm supposed to take them as needed. Do I really need to take them as often as I have been?
Operator: I don't know, do you?
Me: I mean yeah, I do. I mean my chest hurts. Constantly.
Operator: Anxiety?
Me: It stops when I take them.
Operator: So yeah, that's anxiety.
Me: But I hate drugs. I'm scared of them.
Operator: Like you've never done them?
Me: No...I mean I've smoked weed a bunch, but lately it's been making me feel weird. And I've done coke a few times, but I shouldn't have done that. But I really liked it. And I've done shrooms three times. I almost did acid but literally when it was in my hand decided not to take it. And that's kind of when I realized I was scared of drugs.
Operator: Seriously? That was the moment? Are you being honest?
Me: No, not really, no.
[back to text]
Operator: Stop. This essay isn't about men.
Me: What do you think the essay's about?
Operator: I don't know, depression? Anxiety? Whatever weird brain thing you have going on?
Me: Ugh, that's soooo lame.
Operator: Yeah. Wait, what were we talking about before?
Me: With my mom?
Operator: I don't think we were talking about your mom.
Me: Well we were talking about drugs and that reminded me of my mom.
Operator: Oh?
Me: No because like my mom has always been scared of drugs. And of weed specifically because when she was fifteen she smoked some with this guy and started hallucinating her dead father and had to be taken away in an ambulance.
Operator: Who was the guy?
Me: I don't know. I get the sense he made her a little uncomfortable. Do you think she accidentally smoked crack or something?
Operator: As a poison control operator, it is my expert opinion that she did indeed accidentally smoke crack or something.
Me: LOL.
Operator: How do you feel about your mom?
Me: I love her. But she always says we are so similar. Like the other day after a fight she said that, but at the time I did not feel so similar.
Operator: Because you felt angry?
Me: No I just felt....distant. Not distant in a bad way, really. We're just usually so close.
Operator: Too close. Enmeshed.
Me: Yeah, I guess. Enmeshed.
[back to text]
Operator: I think you might be a little too unstable for something like that right now.
Me: What? No. It'll be fun.
Operator: You think summoning the dead will just be like, cheeky fun.
Me: I mean yeah. And she'll probably cry but it'll be like, happy tears.
Operator: Because you're summoning her dad.
Me: Yeah and it will probably heal, like, part of her trauma.
Operator: And you think that's your job.
Me: No. My mom and I have a very healthy relationship.
Operator: She just, like, doesn't see you as a person separate from herself.
Me: No, she's just an empath.
Operator: She's always saying she's an empath.
Me: Yeah, because she is one.
[back to text]
Operator: I mean I get where you were coming from. It's just like, lol.
Me: I seriously passed out like immediately after.
Operator: Lol. The Xanax?
Me: Yeah and like, I was embarrassed. So I was just like, bye. But I kind of fucked it up.
Operator: I mean yeah it's pretty clear that you kind of fucked it up.
Me: No I mean I fucked up at the end of the seance. I was supposed to say thank you and close out the sort of ghost-call. But I passed out and forgot to, which left the portal or whatever open to more spirits. So now there's weird stuff happening. Like I'm pretty sure there's a bunch of spirits just kind of hanging out in every corner of my room.
Operator: You literally haunted your mom's house for her birthday.
Me: I didn't mean tooooo.
Operator: You're not scared of drugs because of your mother.
Me: No. I'm scared of drugs because when I was sixteen I ate a shit ton of shrooms alone in my backyard and nearly fell into the pool and kind of thrashed around and pissed myself and had to be taken to the hospital where I proceeded to trip for like twenty-four hours.
Operator: But you did shrooms again after that?
Me: Yeah. A year later, with my boyfriend at the time.
Operator: You're seriously crazy.
Me: Yeah.
[back to text]
Operator: Why would you want to indulge your self-pitying?
Me: Because no one else will. Because my mother is an empath and leaves the room when I cry.
Operator: Your father?
Me: Mean.
Me: Mean and loves me.
Operator: This essay isn't about your father.
Me: This essay is about my wife.
Operator: The black hole?
Me: Yeah.
Operator: Which is a metaphor for what? Depression?
Me: Depression and etcetera.
Operator: What's the etcetera?
Me: Like marriage and devotion.
Operator: Do you miss Ken ever?
Me: No.
Operator: Cam?
Me: No.
Operator: Does that make you feel good, to write that down in an essay and mean it?
Me: Yeah, it does. But it didn't feel good when I wrote that my dad is mean.
Operator: Why not?
Me: That's not the full truth.
Operator: What's the full truth?
Me: That we have a good relationship now, but it was different when I was a kid. He wasn't very present, and when he was, he yelled often. I felt constantly on edge, like there was nothing I could do to stop or avoid it. And sometimes he would say cruel things. But I don't think he meant it. He was struggling.
Operator: Are you struggling?
Me: Yeah.
Operator: Are you cruel?
Me: Sometimes. Yeah.
Operator: If you had a small daughter, would you be cruel to her?
Me: If I had a small daughter, I would make her my life.
Operator: You and your mom are exactly the same.
Me: I guess.
Operator: I'm kidding.
[back to text]
Operator: Is this supposed to be a sweet moment?
Me: I don't know.
Operator: Well, it's toward the end of the essay. Is the essay supposed to have a sweet ending?
Me: I don't know.
Operator: I can't tell if you want me to help you or fuck off.
Me: Yeah. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just...thinking.
Operator: About your mom?
Me: No.
Operator: About the men?
Me: No.
Operator: About the dead sun hurtling itself at the Earth?
Me: No. Although that's a little bit...distracting...
Operator: I've gotta say, I've really enjoyed talking to you.
Me: Yeah, me too. It gets my mind off all the spirits.
Operator: I'm sorry you're having such a hard time, like, figuring out how you feel about everything.
Me: It's okay. I mean it's weird because it's not hard for me to explain, like, what I think I feel and why I think I feel it. But I never really know if I'm telling the truth. It's much harder to actually...feel it.
Operator: Yeah, I get that sense. Why do you think that is?
Me: I don't know, like, all the Xanax?
Operator: LOL.
Me: Yeah, haha. It's not that. I guess like I was diagnosed with a mood disorder when I was younger, and so often when I had an intense or difficult emotion, I'd be told like, your perception is off, or it would kind of be treated like a symptom. So I never really learned to trust my emotions. I don't know. Maybe it's not that.
Operator: It could be, in part, that.
Me: It could be in part a lot of things.
Operator: It could be all parts.
Me: We could be all parts.
Operator: We could be whole?
Me: No.
Operator: Yeah, I know. That didn't sound right.
Me: I don't think we're whole. But maybe that's not a bad thing.
Operator: Yeah. Maybe that's not a bad thing.
Me: Well. I've really enjoyed talking to you.
Operator: Yeah, well, if you want to talk again, my extension —
Me: I'm not sure if we should talk again.
Operator: What? Oh, because you're kind of like, self-destructive and push away any chance at real connection?
Me: No, I mean, God. Jesus. I'm just tired.
Operator: Like depressed-tired, or Xanax-tired?
Me: Like I'm-tired-of-writing-this-essay-tired. Like I think I need to actually rest.
Operator: Yeah. Well. Look. That doesn't mean that we can't talk ever again.
Me: Yeah, I guess you're right.
Operator: My extension is 003.
Me: Okay. I wrote it down.
Operator: Goodnight, Erika.
Me: Goodnight, operator.
Operator: Say hi to your mom for me.
Me: Say hi to the dead sun for me.
Operator: Say hi to your wife for me.
Me: Say hi to tomorrow.
Operator: Say hi to the shard of glass you did not eat.
Me: Just one shard of glass in your esophagus could kill you.
Me: It could ruin everything.
Operator: Yes, but there's no glass.
[back to text]
__
The phone conversation that takes place in the endnotes of this essay was inspired in part by Elissa Washuta's My Body is a Book of Rules, in particular the chapter "Actually—" which includes logs of a Gchat conversation in the footnotes of the piece.